LAST  SONGS 
FROM 

VAGABONDIA 


alifornia 
Atonal 


PR 

4441 
563 
1901 


ISS   CARMAN 
.ICHARD   HOVEY 


WELCOME   A 
ME,— 

WERE  COMRA 
AND  THEY 
'ill     BUT  I  COULE 


DSIDE  DWELLING, 

ES  LOW  AND  WIDE, 

TO  THE  VILLAGE, 

IE    STEP    INSIDE. 

EER  THEY  GAVE 

rNG  AND  STRONG; 
E    /AIT  FOR  SUPPER, 
AY  SO  LONG. 


LAST  SONGS  FROM  VAGABONDIA 


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LAST  SONGS 

FROM 

VAGABONDIA 

/ 

BLISS    CARMAN 
RICHARTJ    HOVEY 

DESIGNS  BY 

TOM   B  METEYARD 


BOSTON 

SMALL,   MAYNARD  AND  COMPANY 
M  DCCCC  I 


Copyright,  /poo,  by 

SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 
(INCORPORATED) 

Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall 


CONTENTS 

AT  THE  CROSSROADS  R.  H.  I 

"  AT  LAST,  O  DEATH  !  "  R.  H.  2 

MAY  AND  JUNE  B.  C.  3 

PHILIP  SAVAGE  B.  C.  4 

NON  OMNIS  MORIAR  B.  C.  8 

DAY  AND  NIGHT  R.  H.  IO 

THE  BATTLE  OF  MANILA  R.  H.  1 6 

THE  CITY  IN  THE  SEA  B.  C.  l8 

THE  LANTERNS  OF  ST.  EULALIE    B.  C.  21 

HOLIDAY  B.  C.  22 

MARIGOLDS  B.  C.  23 

A  PRELUDE  B.  C.  23 

THE  NORTHERN  MUSE  B.  C.  26 

THE  TIME  AND  THE  PLACE  B.  C.   ,      26 

UNDER  THE  ROWANS  B.  C.  27 

THE  GIRL  IN  THE  POSTER  B.  C.  28 

ON  THE  STAIRS  B.  C.  3! 

THE  DESERTED  INN  B.  C.  32 

THE  OPEN  DOOR  R.  H.  35 

JAPANESE  LOVE  SONG  R.  H.  35 

"HOW  SHOULD  LOVE  KNOW?"      R.  H.  36 

UNFORESEEN  R.  H.  36 

CHILD'S  SONG  R.  H.  37 

HARMONICS  R.  H.  37 

ORNITHOLOGY  R.  H.  38 

TO  AN  IRIS  B.  C.  40 

BERRIS  YARE  B.  C.  43 

A  MODERN  ECLOGUE  B.  C.  47 

FROM  THE  CLIFF  R.  H.  49 

SEA  SONNETS  R.  H.  49 

AT  A  SUMMER  RESORT  R.  H.  5! 

NEW  YORK  R.  H.  5! 

A  GROTESQUE  R.  H.  52 

WHEN  THE  PRIEST  LEFT  R.  H.  53 

THE  GIFT  OF  ART  R.  H.  54 

V 


TO  JAMES   WHITCOMB    RILEY  R.  H. 

TO   RUDYARD   KIPLING  R.   H. 

ROMANY   SIGNS  B.    C. 
THE   MAN    WITH   THE   TORTOISE        B.    C. 

THE   SCEPTICS  B.    C. 

A   THANKSGIVING  B.    C. 

A   STACCATO   TO  O   LE   LUPE  B.    C. 

A   SPRING   FEELING  B.    C. 

HER   VALENTINE  R.  H. 

IN    PHILISTIA  B.    C. 

PEACE  R.  H. 

A   LYRIC  R.  H. 

THE   LOST   COMRADE  B.    C. 

TEN   COMMANDMENTS  R.  H. 

QUATRAINS  R.  H. 
THE   ADVENTURERS                          R.  H.  and  1 


70 

72 

74 
75 
77 
78 
78 


AT   THE   CROSSROADS 

YOU  to  the  left  and  I  to  the  right, 
For  the  ways  of  men  must  sever  — • 
And  it  well  may  be  for  a  day  and  a  night, 
And  it  well  may  be  forever. 
But  whether  we  meet  or  whether  we  part 
(For  our  ways  are  past  our  knowing), 
A  pledge  from  the  heart  to  its  fellow  heart 
On  the  ways  we  all  are  going  ! 
Here 's  luck  ! 
For  we  know  not  where  we  are  going. 

We  have  striven  fair  in  love  and  war, 

But  the  wheel  was  always  weighted ; 

We  have  lost  the  prize  that  we  struggled  for, 

We  have  won  the  prize  that  was  fated. 

We  have  met  our  loss  with  a  smile  and  a  song, 

And  our  gains  with  a  wink  and  a  whistle,  — 

For,   whether  we  're   right  or  whether    we  're 

wrong, 

There  's  a  rose  for  every  thistle. 
Here 's  luck  — 
And  a  drop  to  wet  your  whistle  ! 

Whether  we  win  or  whether  we  lose 
With  the  hands  that  life  is  dealing, 
It  is  not  we  nor  the  ways  we  choose 
%  But  the  fall  of  the  cards  that's  sealing. 
There 's  a  fate  in  love  and  a  fate  in  fight, 
And  the  best  of  us  all  go  under  — 
And  whether  we  're   wrong  or  whether  we  're 

right, 

We  win,  sometimes,  to  our  wonder. 
Here  's  luck  — 

That  we  may  not  yet  go  under  ! 
I 


At  the          With  a  steady  swing  and  an  open  brow 
r    We  have  tramped  the  ways  together, 

But  we  're  clasping  hands  at  the  crossroads  now 

In  the  Fiend's  own  night  for  weather  ; 

And  whether  we  bleed  or  whether  we  smile 

In  the  leagues  that  lie  before  us, 

The  ways  of  life  are  many  a  mile 

And  the  dark  of  Fate  is  o'er  us. 

Here  's  luck ! 

And  a  cheer  for  the  dark  before  us  ! 

You  to  the  left  and  I  to  the  right, 

For  the  ways  of  men  must  sever, 

And  it  well  may  be  for  a  day  and  a  night, 

And  it  well  may  be  forever ! 

But  whether  we  live  or  whether  we  die 

(For  the  end  is  past  our  knowing), 

Here  's  two  frank  hearts  and  the  open  sky, 

Be  a  fair  or  an  ill  wind  blowing ! 

Here  's  luck  ! 

In  the  teeth  of  all  winds  blowing. 


"AT   LAST,   O   DEATH  "    A  FRAGMENT 

A  T  last,  O  death  ! 

./xNot  with  the  sick-room  fever  and  weary  heart 
And  slow  subsidence  of  diminished  breath  — 
But  strong  and  free 

With  the  great  tumult  of  the  living  sea. 
Behold,  I  have  loved. 
And  though  I  wept  for  the  long  sundering, 
I  did  not  fear  thee,  Death,  nor  then  nor  now. 
I  girded  up  my  loins  and  sought  my  kind, 
And  did  a  man's  work  in  a  world  of  men, 

2 


And  looked  upon  my  work  and  called  it  good. 
Now  come,  then,  in  the  shape  I  love  the  best.       Death 
In  the  salt,  sturdy  wrestling  of  the  sea, 
I  give  thee  welcome. 


MAY  AND   JUNE 

I 

MAY  comes,  day  comes, 
One  who  was  away  comes ; 
.  All  the  earth  is  glad  again, 
Kind  and  fair  to  me. 

May  comes,  day  comes, 
One  who  was  away  comes ; 
Set  his  place  at  hearth  and  board 
As  they  used  to  be. 

May  comes,  day  comes, 
One  who  was  away  comes; 
Higher  are  the  hills  of  home, 
Bluer  is  the  sea. 


II 

June  comes,  and  the  moon  comes 
Out  of  the  curving  sea, 
Like  a  frail  golden  bubble, 
To  hang  in  the  lilac  tree. 

June  comes,  and  a  croon  comes 
Up  from  the  old  gray  sea, 
But  not  the  longed-for  footstep 
And  the  voice  at  the  door  for  me. 
3 


PHILIP   SAVAGE 

T^IELDS  by  Massachusetts  Bay, 
r  Where  is  he  who  yesterday 

Called  you  Home,  and  loved  to  go 
Where  the  cherry  spreads  her  snow, 

Through  the  purple  misty  woods 
Of  your  soft  spring  solitudes, 

Listening  for  the  first  fine  gush 
Of  his  fellow,  the  shy  thrush  — 

Hearkening  some  diviner  tone 
Than  our  ears  have  ever  known  ? 

Woodland-musing  by  the  hour 
When  the  locust  comes  in  flower, 

He  would  watch  by  hill  and  swamp 
Every  sign  of  her  green  pomp 

Where  your  matchless  June  once  more 
Leads  her  pageant  up  the  shore. 

Slopes  of  bayberry  and  fern, 
While  you  wait  for  his  return, 

Can  it  be  that  he  would  test 
Some  far  region  of  the  West, 


Tracking  some  great  river  course 
To  its  undiscovered  source  ? 
4 


Or  an  idler  would  he  be 
In  the  Islands  of  the  Sea? 

Can  it  be  that  he  is  gone, 
Like  so  many  a  roving  one, 

The  dread  Arctic  to  explore, 
Never  to  be  heard  of  more  — 

Or  with  those  who  sail  away 
Every  year  from  Gloucester  Bay 

For  the  Banks,  and  do  not  come 
When  the  fishing  fleets  come  home  ? 

Stony  uplands  where  the  quail 
Whistles  by  the  pasture  rail, 

Where  is  one  to  whom  you  lent 
Of  your  wise  serene  content, 

Minstrel  of  your  pagan  psalm 
With  an  Emersonian  calm  ? 

Open  fields  along  the  sea, 
'T  was  your  sweet  sincerity 

Made  him  what  his  fellows  knew, 
Sober,  gentle,  sane  and  true. 

Whippoorwill  and  oriole, 
He  had  your  untarnished  soul ; 
5 


Philip    He  your  steadfast  brother  was, 

Savage  Low,y  field.bird  Qf  the  grasSt 

Shores  of  Massachusetts  Bay, 
Teach  us  only  in  our  day 

Half  as  well  your  face  to  love 
And  your  loving  kindness  prove. 

Now  the  wind  he  loved  so  well 
Makes  the  dune  grass  rock  and  swell, 

And  the  marshy  acres  run 
White  with  charlock  in  the  sun, 

Should  he  not  be  here  to  see 
All  your  brave  felicity  ! 

Through  these  orchards  green  and  dim, 
Whose  old  calm  was  good  to  him, 

/   Let  the  tiny  yellow  birds 

Still  repeat  their  shining  words, 

While  across  our  senses  steal 
Hints  of  things  no  words  reveal. 

Let  the  air  he  used  to  know 
From  the  iris  meadows  blow, 

At  evening  through  the  open  door 
With  the  cool  scents  of  the  shore, 
6 


While  across  our  spirits  sweep  Philip 

Sea-turns  from  a  vaster  deep.  Savage 

Sunlit  fields,  how  gently  now 
Your  white  daisies  nod  and  bow, 

Where  the  soft  wind  and  the  sun 
Grieve  not  for  a  mortal  one  ! 

Only  the  old  sea  the  more 
Seems  to  whisper  and  deplore, 

Murmuring  like  a  childless  crone 
With  her  sorrow  left  alone  — 


The  eternal  human  cry 
To  the  heedless  passer  by. 

Marshes,  while  your  channels  fill 
And  the  June  birds  have  their  will, 

While  the  elms  along  your  edge 
Wave  above  the  rusty  sedge, 

And  the  bobolinks  day  long 
Ply  their  juggleries  of  song, 

While  the  sailing  ships  go  by 
To  their  ports  below  the  sky, 

Still  the  old  Thalassian  blue 
Bounds  this  lovely  world  for  you, 
7 


Philip    And  the  lost  horizon  lies 

past  y0ur  won(jer  or  surmise. 

Fields  by  Massachusetts  Bay, 
When  your  questioner  shall  say, 

"  Where  is  he  who  should  have  been 
Poet  of  your  lovely  mien, 

And  your  soul's  interpreter?  " 
Answer,  every  larch  and  fir, 

"  He  was  here,  but  he  is  gone. 
Some  high  purpose  not  his  own 

Summoned  his  unwasted  powers 
From  our  common  woods  and  flowers. 

All  too  soon  from  our  abode 
Back  he  wended  to  the  road, 

Rich  in  love,  if  not  in  fame. 
Philip  Savage  was  his  name." 


NON    OMNIS   MORIAR 

IN   MEMORY   OF   GLEESON   WHITE 

'HIS  paragraph  cannot  be  true  ; 
For  such  a  man  could  not  have  died. 
Death  is  so  lonely,  hard  and  cold, — 
Not  gentleness  personified. 


T! 


What  manner  was  it  in  the  man  NonO 

That  makes  the  story  seem  untrue  ? 
Death  is  for  fighters,  rakes,  and  kings ; 
Malice  nor  greed  he  never  knew. 

He  never  seemed  to  strive  to  live ; 
His  spirit  was  too  sure  for  strife,  — 
Too  glad,  unquerulous  and  fair, 
To  take  the  sordid  tinge  of  life. 

The  pompous  folly  of  the  world 
Could  never  touch  that  radiant  mien  ; 
He  moved  unstained  among  the  crowd, 
Loyal,  courageous,  and  serene. 

No  bargainer  for  wealth  nor  fame 
Nor  place,  his  was  a  better  part,  — 
The  simple  love  of  all  his  kind, 
And  lifelong  fervour  in  his  art. 

It  must  have  been  his  charity, 
That  tender  human  heart  of  his, 
That  rare  unfailing  kindliness, 
Could  make  his  death  seem  so  amiss. 

In  London  where  he  lived  and  toiled, 
I  saw  him  smile  across  the  throng, 
The  unembittered  smile  of  those 
Whose  sweetness  triumphs  over  wrong. 

With  that  unvexed  Chaucerian  mood, 
That  zest  unsevered  from  repose, 
He  is  as  wise  as  Omar  now, 
Or  any  Master  of  the  Rose. 
9 


NonOmnis  And  here  in  the  November  dusk 

There  comes  an  echo,  faint  and  far, 
Of  that  gay,  valiant,  careless  voice 
That  cried,  Nan  omnis  moriar  I 

Behind  the  mask  of  lore  and  creed 
There  dwells  an  instinct,  strong  and  blind, 
Refuting  sorrow,  bidding  grief 
Be  something  better  than  resigned. 

There  is  a  part  of  me  that  knows, 
Beneath  incertitude  and  fear, 
I  shall  not  perish  when  I  pass 
Beyond  mortality's  frontier; 

But  greatly  having  joyed  and  grieved, 
Greatly  content,  shall  hear  the  sigh 
Of  the  strange  wind  across  the  lone 
Bright  lands  of  taciturnity. 

In  patience  therefore  I  await 

My  friend's  unchanged  benign  regard,  — 

Some  April  when  I  too  shall  be 

Spilt  water  from  a  broken  shard. 


DAY   AND   NIGHT 

(Read  at  the  Sixty-sixth  Annual  Convention  of  the  Psi 
Upsilon  Fraternity,  at  Cornell  University,  1899.) 

FAIR  college  of  the  quiet  inland  lake 
And  beautiful  fair  name  that  like  a  bell 
Rings  out  its  clear  sheer  call  of  joy,  Cornell !  — 
Its  call  of  high  undaunted  dares  that  take 
ro 


The  hearts  of  men  with  fervours  for  thy  sake       Day  and 
And  for  thy  sake  with  sudden  hopes  that  swell,      tg  * 
Hail  first  to  thee,  with  praise  for  thy  bold  youth, 
Thy  fearless  challenge  in  the  ranks  of  truth, 
Thy  forward  footing  into  the  unknown ! 
The  new  in  knowledge  that  is  old  in  being 
Wrenched  from  the  dark  and  morninged  for  our 

seeing  — 
This  is  the  legend  on  thy  banners  blown. 

Mightier  the  foes  yet  that  are  still  to  smite, 
And  fiercer  yet  the  fields  we  still  must  fight, 
But  thou,  a  David  of  the  sunrise  cause, 
In  the  first  dawn  of  the  defiant  day, 
Startled  the  mumbling  hosts  that  bar  the  way  — 
Thou,  a  young  Spartan  of  the  days  to  be, 
Made  the  vast  hordes  of  Persian  darkness  pause 
And  bade  our  band  think  of  Thermopylae. 

Day  —  yes,  the  day  for  thee  !  but  all  we  men 
Are  twofold,  having  need  of  day  and  night. 
Day  for  the  mind,  the  ardour  of  the  fight, 
Night  for  the  soul  and  silence.     So  again 
To  thee  I  turn,  O  one  of  many  stars 
That  make  the  loyal  heaven  glorious 
But  dear  among  the  innumerable  to  us, 
Psi  Upsilon,  and  resting  from  the  scars 
Of  day,  the  brunt  of  battle,  lift  thy  song, 
"  Now  for  the  joys  of  night !  "  —  they  sing  it  still 
In  the  old  chapters  where  we  had  our  fill 
Of  fun  and  fellowship  and  frank  good  will, 
I  and  my  fellows,  when  we  too  were  young. 
"  Soft  as  a  dream  of  beauty  "  —  hark,  again  ! 
Here's  to  his  right  good  health  who  sang  that 
strain ! 

II 


Day  and   Come  with  me  into  the  night  — 

Night       rj^e  intimate  embracing  night! 
The  night  is  still; 
And  we  may  walk  from  hill  to  hill 
Silent,  with  but  the  murmur  of  our  souls, 
As  through  the  woods  the  murmur  of  the  night. 
—  Ah,  take  your  heaven  of  undying  light, 
Of  glare  of  gold  and  glint  of  aureoles  ! 
I  think  God  keeps  for  us  somewhere 
A  place  of  cool  dusks  and  caressing  air, 
Where  all  the  greens  and  yellows  dream  of  blue 
And  all  the  rainbow  hints  itself  in  hue 
But  never  speaks  outright,  — 
Never  unveils 

The  unmistakable  red  or  violet, 
But  lets  all  colour  die  to  a  perfume. 

Is  it  the  flapping  of  sails 

And  the  lurch  of  a  jibing  boom 

Where  a  boat  comes  round,  below,  on  the  lake, 

to  set 

Off  shore  again  ?     How  clear, 
Like  the  league-distant  hills  that  seem  so  near 
In  the  thin  air  of  Colorado,  rise 
The  voices  of  the  merry-making  crew 
Over  the  waters,  —  songs  of  love  that  strew 
The  silence  with  the  roses  of  surmise ! 


Hark! 


There  is  no  sound  beneath  the  sky 
But  sails  that  flap  and  oars  that  feather 
And  the  low  water  whispering  by 
In  the  Jttne  weather. 

My  love  and  /, 
My  love  and  /, 
My  love  and  I  together  ! 


The  starlight  lies  upon  the  lake 

Like  dreams  of  vanished  days  and -viewless 

Earth  never  shall  recall  awake,  — 

The  dim  lost  Thules  ! 
My  love  and  I, 
My  love  and  I, 
My  love  and  I  together  / 

The  soft  wind  stirs  among  the  firs, 

The  great  stars  wait  above  and  seek  not; 

The  night  is  full  of  ministers 

For  souls  that  speak  not. 
My  love  and  I, 
My  love  and  I, 
My  love  and  I  together  ! 

I  wonder  whether  you  and  I 

Are  real,  love  —  /  wonder  whether! 

I  only  know  that,  live  or  die, 

We  dream  together. 

My  love  and  I, 
My  love  and  I, 
My  love  and  I  together  ! 

Far,  so  far  — 

The  song  dies  on  the  waters  like  a  star 

That  founders  in  the  surges  of  the  dawn. 

Ah,  the  great  Night ! 
The  far  phantasmal  Night ! 
The  delicate  dim  aisles  and  domes  of  dream ! 
Loosed  from  the  mind,  set  free 
From  thought  and  memory, 
The  soul  goes  naked  into  the  vast  stream 
13 


Day  and   Of  musing  spirit  like  a  careless  Faun,  — 
Night       rj,jie  gouj  jjeg  najcecj  to  the  summer  night. 


Night  of  the  clasped  hands  of  comrades  !  Night 

of  the  kiss 

Of  lovers  trembling  at  love's  mysteries  ! 
Night  of  desire  ! 

Night  of  the  gaslight-necklaced  city  !     Night 
Of  revel  and  laughter  and  delight  ! 
Night  of  the  starlit  Sea  ! 

Night  of  the  waves  shot  with  strange  witch-fire  ! 
Night  of  sleep  ! 
Night  of  dream  ! 
Night  of  the  lonely  soul  under  the  stars  ! 

But  ever  the  self  put  away 

With  the  day, 

And  the  soul  soaring,  glorying  into  the  night  ! 

Night  ! 

The  masked  mysterious  Night  ! 

The  infinite  unriddled  beautiful  Witch  ! 

The  Sibyl  of  the  universal  Doom  ! 

This  is  the  joy  of  man's  spirit  — 
When  peace  falls, 
Unknown,  undivined,  inexplicable, 
Over  the  face  of  the  world. 

Oh,  praise  for  the  glory  of  battle  —  the  Day  and 

its  strife  ! 
And  praise  for  the  sweat  and  the  struggle,  the 

turmoil  of  life  ! 
But  the  work  is  not  wrought  for  the  working, 

increase  for  increase  ; 
14 


We  toil  for  the  rest  that  comes  after,  we  battle  Day  and 

for  peace. 
Let  us  take  up  our  work  every  man,  meet  our 

fate  with  a  cheer  — 
But  the  best  is  the  clasped  hands  of  comrades, 

when  nightfall  is  near, 
The  best  is  the  rest  and  the  friendship,  the  calm 

of  the  soul 
When  the  stars  are  in  heaven  and  the  runner 

lies  down  at  the  goal. 

Let  us  take  up  our  work  as  a  nation,  the  work 

of  the  day,  . 
Clasp  hands  with  our  brothers  of  England  — 

and  who  shall  say  nay  ? 
And  who  shall  say  nay  to  our  navies  —  the  ships 

of  us,  sons  of  the  Sea  ? 
And  who  shall  say  nay  to  our  Empires,  to  the 

Law  that  we  set  for  the  free  ? 
But  the  best  is  the  bond  that 's  between  us,  the 

bond  of  the  brothers  in  blood, 
The  bond  of  the  men  who  keep  silence,  as  the 

night  when  it  falls  on  the  flood, 
As  the  night  when  it  falls  on  the  vastness,  the 

splendour  and  lone  of  the  wave, 
The  bond  of  the  English  forever,  the  bond  of 

the  free  and  the  brave  ! 

And  at  last  when  the  bugles  are  silent  or  call 
but  to  rouse 

A  cheer  for  the"  memory  of  crowned  and  victori- 
ous brows, 

When  the  drums  beat  no  more  to  the  battle  and, 
smitten  in  one, 

The  hearts  of  the  nations  uplift  but  one  song  to 
the  sun, 

IS 


Day  and   When,  the  Law  once  made  good  for  all  peoples 

by  stress  of  the  sword, 
The  spent  world  shall  rest  from  its  wrestling, 

clasp  hands  in  accord, 
Then,  best  of  all  bests,  in  the  silence  that  falls 

on  man's  soul, 
We  shall  feel  we   are   comrades  and   brothers 

from  tropic  to  pole. 
All  men  by  the  pledge  of  their  manhood  made 

one  in  the  will 
To  achieve  for  all  men   as  their  fellows   each 

conquest  o'er  ill, 

No  glory  or  beauty  or  music  or  triumph  or  mirth 
If  it  be  not  made  good  for  the  least  of  the  sons 

of  the  earth, 
And  the  bond  of  all  bonds  shall  be  manhood, 

the  right  of  all  rights 
The  right  to  the  hearts  of  our  fellows,  to  the 

love  that  requites 
All  the  strain  and  the  pain  and  the  fag,  all  the 

wrench  of  the  day, 
When  the  stars  shine  at  last  in  the  heavens  and 

Night  has  its  way. 


THE   BATTLE  OF   MANILA    A  FRAGMENT 

Cavite  on  the  bay 
'T  was  the  Spanish  squadron  lay  ; 
And  the  red  dawn  was  creeping 
O'er  the  city  that  lay  sleeping 
To  the  east,  like  a  bride,  in  the  May. 
There  was  peace  at  Manila, 
In  the  May  morn  at  Manila,  — 
16 


When  ho,  the  Spanish  admiral  The  Battle 

Awoke  to  find  our  line  of  Manila 

Had  passed  by  gray  Corregidor, 
Had  laughed  at  shoal  and  mine, 
And  flung  to  the  sky  its  banners 
With  "  Remember  "  for  a  sign ! 

With  the  ships  of  Spain  before 

In  the  shelter  of  the  shore, 

And  the  forts  on  the  right, 

They  drew  forward  to  the  fight, 

And  the  first  was  the  gallant  Commodore  ; 

In  the  bay  of  Manila, 

In  the  doomed  bay  of  Manila  — 

With  succour  half  the  world  away, 

No  port  beneath  that  sky, 

With  nothing  but  their  ships  and  guns 

And  Yankee  pluck  to  try, 

They  had  left  retreat  behind  them, 

They  had  come  to  win  or  die  ! 

For  we  spoke  at  Manila, 

We  said  it  at  Manila, 

Oh  be  ve  brave,  or  be  ye  strong, 

Ye  build  your  ships  in  vain  ; 

The  children  of  the  sea  queen's  brood 

Will  not  give  up  the  main  ; 

We  hold  the  sea  against  the  world 

As  we  held  it  against  Spain. 

Be  warned  by  Manila, 
Take  warning  by  Manila, 
Ye  may  trade  by  land,  ye  may  fight  by  land. 
Ye  may  hold  the  land  in  fee  ; 
17 


The  Battle    But  go  not  down  to  the  sea  in  ships 

of  Manila  fj.ee  . 


For  England  and  America 
Will  keep  and  hold  the  sea  ! 


O 


THE   CITY   IN   THE   SEA 

CE  of  old  there  stood  a  fabled  city 
By  the  Breton  sea, 
Towered  and  belled  and  flagged  and  wreathed 

and  pennoned 

For  the  pomp  of  Yuletide  revelry'; 
All  its  folk,  adventurous,  sea-daring, 
Gay  as  gay  could  be. 

And  at  night  when  window,  torch,  and  bonfire 
Lighted'up  the  sky, 

Down  the  wind  came  galleon  and  pinnace, 
Steered  for  that  red  lantern,  riding  high  ; 
Every  brown  hand  hard  upon  the  tiller, 
Shoreward  every  eye. 

Well  I  see  that  hardy  Breton  sailor 

With  the  bearded  lip,  — 

How  he  laughed  out,  holding  his  black  racer 

WTO-re  the  travelling  sea-hills  climb  and  slip, 

Chased  by  storm  and  lighted  on  to  haven, 

Ship  by  homing  ship. 

Every  sail  came  in,  like  deep-sea  rovers 
Who  have  heard  afar 
Wild  and  splendid  hyperborean  rumours 
18 


Of  a  respite  made  to  feud  and  war,  —  The  City  in 

Making  port  where  sea-wreck  and  disaster  the  Sea 

Should  not  vex  them  more. 

What  of  Ys  ?  Where  was  it  when  gray  morning 
Gloomed  o'er  Brittany  ? 
Smothered  out  in  elemental  fury, 
Wrecked  and  whelmed  in  the  engulfing  sea, 
To  become  the  name  of  a  sea-story 
In  lost  legendry. 

In  my  heart  there  is  a  sunken  city, 

Wonderful  as  Ys. 

All  day  long  I  hear  the  mellow  tolling 

Of  its  sweet-sad  lonely  bells  of  peace, 

Rocked  by  tides  that  wash  through  all  its  portals 

Without  let  or  cease. 

Pale  and  fitful  as  the  wan  auroras 

Are  its  nights  and  days  ; 

In  from  nowhere  flush  the  drafty  sea-turns 

By  forgotten  and  neglected  ways  ; 

Through  the  entries  and  the  doors  of  being 

That  faint  music  strays; 

Tolling  back  the  wandered  and  the  way-worn 
From  far  alien  lands  ; 
Tolling  back  the  gipsy  child  of  beauty 
With  mysterious  and  soft  commands ; 
Tolling  back  the  spirit  that  within  me 
Hears  and  understands. 

Then  some  May  night,  with  a  scent  of  lilacs 
In  the  magic  air, 

19 


The  City  in  Through  the  moonlight   and  the   mad  spring 
'*"*»  weather, 

(Old  love's  fervour  and  new  love's  despair), 

I  go  down  to  my  familiar  city, 

Roaming  court  and  square. 

Of  a  sudden  at  a  well-known  corner, 
In  the  densest  throng, 
Unexpected  at  the  very  moment 
As  an  April  robin's  gush  of  song, 
Some  one  smiles  ;  and  there 's  the  perfect  com- 
rade 
I  have  missed  so  long. 

Then,  at  just  the  touch  of  hand  on  shoulder 

Bidding  grief  be  gone, 

I  forget  the  loneliness  of  travel 

For  the  while  the  parted  ways  are  one,  — 

Know  the  meaning  of  the  world's  great  gladness 

Underneath  the  sun. 

That 's  the  story  of  my  sounding  sea-bells, 

Chiming  all  night  long,  — 

The  eternal  cadence  of  sea-sorrow 

For  Man's  lot  and  immemorial  wrong,  — 

The  lost  strain  that  haunts  this  human  dwelling 

With  a  ghost  of  song. 

Nay,  but  is  there  any  lost  sea-city 
Buried  in  the  main, 

Where  we  shall  go  down  in  days  hereafter, 
Having  said  good-bye  to  grief  and  pain, 
Joy  and  love  at  last  made  one  with  beauty, 
Glad  and  free  again  ? 

20 


You  believe  not?   Hark,  there  comes  the  tolling  The  City  in 

Of  my  bells  once  more, 

That  far-heard  and  faint  fantastic  music 

From  my  city  by  the  perilous  shore, 

Sounding  the  imperious  allegiance 

I  shall  not  deplore. 


THE   LANTERNS   OF   ST.    EULALIE 

IN  the  October  afternoon 
Orange  and  purple  and  maroon, 

Goes  quiet  Autumn,  lamp  in  hand, 
About  the  apple-coloured  land, 

To  light  in  every  apple-tree 
The  Lanterns  of  St.  Eulalie. 

They  glimmer  in  the  orchard  shade 
Like  fiery  opals  set  in  jade,  — 

Crimson  and  russet  and  raw  gold, 
Yellow  and  green  and  scarlet  old. 

And  O  when  I  am  far  away 
By  foaming  reel  or  azure  bay, 

In  crowded  street  or  hot  lagoon, 

Or  under  the  strange  austral  moon,  — 

When  the  homesickness  comes  on  me 
For  the  great  Marshes  by  the  sea, 
21 


The  Lan-     The  running  dikes,  the  brimming  tide, 

£    And  the  dark  firs  on  Fundy  side> 

In  dream  once  more  I  shall  behold, 
Like  signal  lights,  those  globes  of  gold 

Hung  out  in  every  apple-tree  — 
The  Lanterns  of  St.  Eulalie. 


HOLIDAY 

WHAT  is  this  joy  to-day, 
Hope,  reparation,  reprieve  ? 

Out  of  the  sweltering  city, 

Out  of  the  blaring  streets 

And  narrow  houses  of  men, 

The  seaboard  express  for  the  North 

Forges,  and  settles  for  flight 

Into  the  great  blue  summer, 

The  wide,  sweet,  opulent  noon. 

Farewell  despondency,  fear, 
Ambition,  and  pitiless  greed, 
And  sordid  unlovely  regrets ! 
And  thou,  frail  spirit  in  me, 
My  journey-fellow  these  years, 
Behold,  thy  brothers  the  elms, 
And  thy  sisters  the  daisies,  are  here. 
Thou,  too,  shalt  grow  and  be  glad, 
Companioned  of  innocence  now, 
In  the  long  hours  of  joy.    ' 


How  will  it  be  that  day,  Holiday 

When  the  dark  train  is  ready, 
And  the  inexorable  gong 
Sounds  on  the  platform  of  Time 


MARIGOLDS 

r~T*H  E  marigolds  are  nodding ; 
A  I  wonder  what  they  know. 
Go,  listen  very  gently  ; 
You  may  persuade  them  so. 

Go,  be  their  little  brother, 
As  humble  as  the  grass, 
And  lean  upon  the  hill-wind, 
And  watch  the  shadows  pass. 

Put  off  the  pride  of  knowledge, 
Put  by  the  fear  of  pain  ; 
You  may  be  counted  worthy 
To  live  with  them  again. 

Be  Darwin  in  your  patience, 
Be  Chaucer  in  your  love  ; 
They  may  relent  and  tell  you 
What  they  are  thinking  of. 


PRELUDE 

HPHIS  is  the  sound  of  the  Word 
_L  From  the  waters  of  sleep, 
The  rain-soft  voice  that  was  heard 
23 


A  Prelude    On  the  face  of  the  deep, 

When  the  fog  was  drawn  back  like  a  veil,  and 

the  sentinel  tides 
Were  given  their  thresholds  to  keep. 

The  South  Wind  said,  "  Come  forth," 

And  the  West  Wind  said,  "  Go  far  ! " 

And  the  silvery  sea-folk  heard, 

Where  their  weed  tents  are, 

From  the  long  slow  lift  of  the  blue  through  the 

Carib  keys, 
To  the  thresh  on  Sable  bar. 

This  is  the  Word  that  went  by, 

Over  sun-land  and  swale, 

The  long  Aprilian  cry, 

Clear,  joyous,  and  hale, 

When  the  summons  went  forth  to  the  wild  shy 

broods  of  the  air, 
To  bid  them  once  more  to  the  trail. 

The  South  Wind  said,  "  Come  forth," 

And  the  West  Wind  said,  "  Be  swift !  " 

And  the  fluttering  sky-folk  heard, 

And  the  warm  dark  thrift 

Of  the  nomad  blood  revived,  and  they  gathered 

for  flight, 
By  column  and  pair  and  drift. 

This  is  the  sound  of  the  Word 

From  bud-sheath  and  blade, 

When  the  reeds  and  the  grasses  conferred, 

And  a  gold  beam  was  laid 

At  the  taciturn  doors  of  the  forest,  where  tarried 

the  Sun, 

For  a  sign  they  should  not  be  dismayed. 
24 


The  South  Wind  said,  "  Come  forth,"  A  Prelude 

And  the  West  Wind  said,  "  Be  glad !  " 

The  abiding  wood-folk  heard, 

In  their  new  green  clad, 

Sanguine,  mist-silver,  and  rose,  while  the  sap  in 

their  veins 
Welled  up  as  of  old  all  unsad. 

This  is  the  Word  that  flew 

Over  snow-marsh  and  glen, 

When  the  frost-bound  slumberers  knew, 

In  tree-trunk  and  den, 

Their  bidding   had  come,  they  questioned  not 

whence  nor  why,  — 
They  reckoned  not  whither  nor  when. 

The  South  Wind  said,  "  Come  forth," 

And  the  West  Wind  said,  "  Be  wise  !  " 

The  wintering  ground-folk  heard, 

Put  the  dark  from  their  eyes, 

Put  the  sloth  from  sinew  and  thew,  to  wander 

and,  dare,  — 
Forever  the  old  surmise ! 

This  is  the  Word  that  came 

To  the  spirit  of  Man, 

And  shook  his  soul  like  a  flame 

In  the  breath  of  a  fan, 

Till  it  burned  as  a  light  in  his  eyes,  as  a  colour 

that  grew 
And  prospered  under  the  tan. 

The  South  Wind  said,  "  Come  forth," 
And  the  West  Wind  said,  "  Be  free  !  " 
25 


A  Prelude    Then  he  rose  and  put  on  the  new  garb, 
And  knew  he  should  be 
The    master    of    knowledge    and    joy,    though 

sprung  from  the  tribes 
Of  the  earth  and  the  air  and  the  sea. 


THE   NORTHERN   MUSE 

'  I  "HE  Northern  Muse  looked  up 
JL  Into  the  ancient  tree, 
Where  hang  the  seven  olives, 
And  twine  the  roses  three. 

I  heard,  like  the  eternal 
Susurrus  of  the  sea, 
Her  Scire  quod sciendum 
Da  mihi,  Domine  ! 


THE    TIME   AND    THE    PLACE 

"  ~\  TEVER  the  time  and  the  place 

1  \IAnd  the  loved  one  all  together  ! 
Ah,  Browning,  that  does  to  tell ! 
But  I  have  an  eagle  feather 
Hid  in  my  waistcoat  too. 

Yes,  once  in  the  wild  June  weather, 
In  God's  own  North  befell 
The  joy  not  time  shall  undo 
Nor  the  storm  of  years  efface. 
26 


Ah,  master  Browning,  you  hear  ?  The  Time 

If  ever  the  time  and  the  place  ' 

With  aught  of  thy  mood  concur, 

Far  off  in  my  golden  year, 

The  solstice  of  my  prime, 

Youth  done,  age  not  begun, 

The  moment  that  soul  is  ripe 

For  the  little  touch  of  rhyme, 

Then  hearken  !     If  there  but  stir 

One  breath  of  the  Spirit  of  earth 

Through  me  his  frail  reed-pipe, 

(As  the  hermit-thrush 

Rehearses  the  scene  when  the  joy  of  the  world 

had  birth, 
So  sure,  so  fine, 
Disturbing  the  hush,) 
You  shall  hearken,  and  hear 
Take  rapture  and  sense  and  form  in  one  perfect 

line 
A  golden  lyric  of  Her ! 


UNDER   THE    ROWANS 

I  SAW  a  little  river 
Running  beside  a  wall, 
And  over  it  hung  scarlet 
The  berried  rowans  tall. 

Beside  it  for  a  moment 
The  summer-time  delayed; 
And  cooler  fell  the  sunlight 
Through  centuries  of  shade. 
27 


Under  the    And  there  was  laughing  Bronwen 
A-wading  to  the  knee. 
While  still  the  foolish  water 
Went  racing  to  the  sea. 

I  whistled,  "  Love,  come  over  !  " 
She  was  too  wild  to  fear 
The  wildness  of  the  forest, 
The  ruin  of  the  year. 

And  when  the  stars  above  us 
Hung  in  the  rowans  high, 
It  was  the  little  river 
That  made  our  lullaby. 

Indoors,  to-night,  and  fire-dreams  ! 
And  where  I  wander,  far 
Within  a  shining  country 
That  needs  no  calendar, 

There  is  a  little  river 
Running  beside  a  wall, 
And  over  it  hang  scarlet 
The  berried  rowans  tall. 


THE   GIRL   IN   THE    POSTER 

FOR  A  DESIGN  BY  ETHEL  REED 

WITH  her  head  in  the  golden  lilies, 
She  reads  and  is  never  done. 
Why  her  girlish  face  so  still  is, 
I  know  not  under  the  sun. 
28 


She  is  the  soul  of  a  woman,  The  Girl  in 

Knowing  whatever  befalls  ;  ttu  Poster 

And  I  a  lonely  human. 
Dwelling  within  her  walls. 

She  is  the  fair  immortal 
Daughter  of  truth  and  art ; 
And  I,  at  her  lowly  portal, 
May  fare  and  be  glad  and  depart. 

In  a  region  forever  vernal, 
She  keeps  her  lilied  state,  — 
My  beautiful  calm  eternal 
Mysteriarch  of  fate. 

In  a  volume  great  and  golden, 
Would  better  beseem  a  sage, 
Her  downcast  look  is  holden  ; 
But  I  cannot  see  the  page. 

Picture,  or  printed  column, 
Or  records,  or  cipherings,  — 
From  the  drooping  lids  so  solemn 
I  guess  at  marvellous  things. 

Is  it  a  rune  she  ponders,  — 
Word  from  an  outer  clime, 
Where  the  spirit  quests  and  wanders 
Through  long  sidereal  time  ? 

Would  she  trammel  her  heart,  or  cumber 
Her  mind  with  our  mortal  needs  ? 
Do  the  shadows  quake  and  slumber 
On  the  book  wherein  she  reads  ? 
29 


The  Girl  in  \  know  not.     I  know  her  being 

the  Poster      jg  ;mpu]se  an<J  moocj  to  mine, 

Till  I  voyage,  without  foreseeing 
For  a  lost  horizon  line. 

For  her  the  spacious  morrow  ; 
But  the  humble  day  for  me, 
In  the  little  house  of  sorrow 
By  the  unbefriending  sea. 

Her  hair  is  a  raven  glory ; 
Her  chin  is  pointed  and  small ; 
What  is  the  wonderful  story 
Keeps  her  forever  in  thrall  ? 

Her  mouth  is  little  and  childly  ; 
Her  brow  is  innocent  broad  ; 
Meekly  she  reads  and  mildly,  — 
Woula  neither  condemn  nor  applaud. 

Would  that  I  too,  a-reading, 
Might  half  of  her  wisdom  find, 
In  the  gold  flowers  there  unheeding,  - 
The  calm  of  an  open  mind  ! 

Day  long,  as  I  keep  the  homely 
Round  of  my  chambers  here, 
Her  beauty  is  modest  and  comely, 
Her  presence  living  and  near. 

Till  it  seems  I  must  recover 
A  day  in  the  ilex  grove, 
Where  I  was  a  destined  lover, 
And  she  was  destined  for  love. 
30 


I  remember  the  woods  we  strayed  in,  The  Girl  in 

And  the  mountain  paths  we  trod, 
When  she  was  a  Doric  maiden, 
And  I  was  a  young  Greek  god. 

And  I  have  the  haunting  fancy, 
The  moment  my  back,  is  turned, 
By  some  Eastern  necromancy 
Only  the  artists  have  learned. 

Two  great  grave  eyes  are  lifted 
To  follow  me  round  the  room, 
And  a  sudden  breath  has  shifted 
A  leaf  in  the  Book  of  Doom. 


ON    THE    STAIRS 

*ROM  glory  up  to  glory 
On  the  great  stairs  of  time, 
I  track  the  ghostly  whisper 
That  bids  a  mortal  climb. 

I  pass  the  gorgeous  threshold 
Of  many  an  open  door, 
Where,  luring  and  illusive, 
The  pageant  gleams  once  more. 

Up  the  Potomac  Valley 
I  see  the  April  come  ; 
Here  it  is  May  in  Paris  ; 
Here  is  my  Ardise  home ; 


On  the    These  are  the  ScStuate  marshes  ; 
stairs    This  is  a  Norman  town; 

These  are  the  dikes  of  Grand  Pre" ; 

Ah,  tell  no  more,  Renown! 

I  pass  the  open  portals, 
Irresolute  and  fond,  — 
Desert  the  masque  of  beauty 
For  Beauty's  self  beyond. 

For  down  the  echoing  stairway 
Of  being,  I  have  heard 
The  faint  immortal  secret 
Shut  in  a  mortal  word,  — 

The  tawny  velvet  accent 
Of  Lilith,  as  she  came 
Into  the  great  blue  garden 
And  breathed  her  lover's  name. 


THE   DESERTED    INN 

CAME  to  a  deserted  inn, 
.Standing  apart,  alone; 
A  place  where  human  joy  had  been, 
And  only  winds  made  moan. 


L 


I  entered  by  the  spacious  hall, 
With  not  a  soul  to  see  ; 
The  echo  of  my  own  footfall 
Was  ghostly  there  to  me. 
32 


I  came  upon  a  sudden  door,  The 

Which  gave  me  no  reply  ;  ££ 

The  more  I  questioned  it,  the  more 
A  questioner  was  I. 

I  lingered  by  the  mouldy  stair, 

And  by  the  dusty  sill ; 

And  when  my  faint  heart  said,  "  Beware  !  " 

The  silence  said,  "  Be  still !  " 

From  room  to  room  I  caught  the  stir 
Of  garments  vanishing,  — 
The  stillness  trying  to  demur, 
When  one  has  ceased  to  sing. 

Like  shadows  of  the  clouds  which  make 

The  loneliness  of  noon, 

The  thing  I  could  not  overtake 

Was  but  an  instant  gone. 

'T  was  summer  when  I  reached  the  inn  ; 
The  apples  were  in  bloom  ; 
Before  I  left,  the  snow  drove  in, 
The  frost  was  like  a  doom. 

At  last  I  came  upon  the  book 
Where  visitors  of  yore 
Had  writ  their  names,  ere  joy  forsook 
The  House  of  Rest-no-more. 

Poor  fellow-travellers,  beset 
With  hungers  not  of  earth ! 
Did  you,  too,  tarry  here  in  debt 
For  things  of  perished  worth  ? 
33 


Did  something  lure  you  like  a  strain 

Only  to  freeze  your  blood  again 
With  jeers  when  you  had  passed  ? 

Did  visions  of  a  fairer  thing 

Than  God  has  ever  made 

Fleet  through  your  doorways  in  the  spring, 

And  would  not  be  delayed  r 

Did  beauty  in  a  half-made  song, 
A  smile  of  mystery, 
Departing,  leave  you  here  to  long 
For  what  could  never  be,  — 

And  thenceforth  you  were  friends  of  peace, 
Acquainted  with  unrest, 
Whom  no  perfection  could  release 
From  the  unworldly  quest? 

I  heard  a  sound  of  women's  tears, 
More  desolate  than  the  sea, 
Sigh  through  the  chambers  of  the  years 
Unto  eternity. 

And  then  beyond  the  fathom  of  sense 
I  knew,  as  the  dead  know, 
My  lost  ideal  had  journeyed  thence 
Unnumbered  years  ago. 

And  from  that  dwelling  of  the  night, 
With  the  gray  dusk  astir, 
I  waited  for  the  first  gold  light 
To  let  me  forth  to  Her. 
34 


THE   OPEN    DOOR 

LOVE  me,  love  me  not, 
What  is  that  to  me  ? 
I  have  not  forgot 
When  we  two  were  three. 


She  who  loved  us  twain 
Well  enough  to  die,  — 
Can  we  love  again 
While  her  ghost  stands  by  ? 

Love  me,  love  me  not,  — 
I  can  love  no  more, 
For  the  empty  cot 
And  the  open  door. 


JAPANESE    LOVE-SONG 

HOW  you  start  away ! 
—  As  a  flame  starts  from  a  gust. 
Flame-heart  o'  the  dust ! 
Sudden  startle  of  dismay  ! 
Swift  triumph  in  distrust ! 


Flash  and  tremble  of  escape, 
Fierce  with  desire ! 
Rippled  water  shot  with  fire 
Wary  of  the  rape 
Of  the  eyes  that  sire  ! 

Radiant  no-and-yes ! 
Deer-flight  and  panther-thirst ! 
Blest  and  accurst ! 
Sword-splendour  past  the  guess 
Of  Heaven's  best  and  Hell's  worst ! 
35 


Japanese     So  you  sprang  up  from  yourself, 
L™^»*  Burnt  to  supremacies, 

Star-demoned  by  a  kiss  — 
Night  turned  fire-elf,  — 
Wonder  and  all  amiss ! 


HOW   SHOULD    LOVE   KNOW?" 

HOW  should  Love  know 
The  face  of  sorrow  ? 
Love  is  so  young  a  thing  ! 
Roses  that  blow 
To-day,  lie  to-morrow 
Faded  and  withering. 


UNFORESEEN 

WHY  did  I  kiss  you,  sweet  ? 
Nor  you  nor  I  can  say. 
You  might  have  said  some  commonplace, 
I  might  have  turned  away. 

No  thought  was  in  our  hearts 
Of  what  we  were  to  be. 
Fate  sent  a  madness  on  our  souls 
And  swept  us  out  to  sea. 

Fate,  between  breath  and  breath, 
Has  made  the  world  anew, 
And  the  bare  skies  of  yesterday 
Are  all  aflame  with  you. 
36 


CHILD'S    SONG, 

But  just  across  the  furthest  hill 
I  kno-w  the  fairies  live. 

PLEASE,  sir,  take  me  in  your  carriage 
And  ride  me  home  !    You  see, 
I  've  been  to  find  the  fairies 
And  I  'm  tired  as  I  can  be. 

I  crossed  the  meadow  and  the  brook 
And  climbed  Rapalye's  hill, 
But  when  I  reached  the  top  of  it 
There  was  another  still. 


HARMONICS 

"  HPRUTH  is  not  a  creed, 

J_  For  it  does  not  need 
Ever  an  apology. 
Truth  is  not  an  ology  ; 
'T  is  not  part,  but  all. 
Priests  and  savans  shall 
Never  solve  the  mystic 
Problem.     The  artistic 
Mind  alone  of  all  can  tell 
What  is  Truth. 

"  Poet,  thou  art  wisest ; 
Dogmas  thou  despisest  — 
Science  little  prizest. 
Tell  us,  for  thou  knowest  well, 
What  is  Truth." 

Spake  the  seekers  to  an  holy 
Bard,  who  answered,  mild  and  lowly  — 
This,  all  this,  was  in  the  olden 
Days  when  Saturn's  reign  was  golden  — 
37 


Harmonics  «  shall  I  read  the  riddle  — 
Tell  you  what  is  Truth  ? 
Truth  is  not  the  first 
Not  the  last  or  middle ; 
'T  is  the  beautiful 
And  symmetric  whole, 
Embracing  best  and  worst, 
Embracing  age  and  youth. 

"  All  the  universe 
Is  one  mighty  song, 
Wherein  every  star 
Chants  out  loud  and  strong 
Each  set  note  and  word 
It  must  aye  rehearse. 
Though  the  parts  may  jar, 
The  whole  is  as  one  chord." 


ORNITHOLOGY 

QWEETHEART,   do    you  see    up    yonder 
vj  through  the  leaves 
The  elm  tree  interweaves, 
How  that  cock-sparrow  chases  his  brown  mate? 
Look,  where  she  perches  now 
Upon  the  bough 

And  turns  her  head  to  see  if  he  pursue  her, 
Half  frightened,  half  elate 
To  have  so  bold  and  beautiful  a  wooer. 
See,  he  alights  beside  her.     How  his  wings 
Quiver  with  amorous  passionings  ! 
How  voluble  their  chattering  courtship  is  ! 
Soon  will  he  know 
Love's  joys  in  overflow, 
Love's  extreme  ecstasies. 
38 


No,  off  She  flies  !  Ornithology 

Just  as  she  seemed  about  to  be  subdued 

To  his  impetuous  desire  ! 

How  angrily  he  scolds,  with  wicked  eyes 

Following  her  flight,  and  turns  his  tiny  ire 

Against  the  innocent  tree  and  pecks  the  wood ! 

While  she  —  ah,  the  coquette  !  — 

Lurks  yonder  in  the  cleft  where  the  great  tree 

Breaks  into  boughs,  and  peeps  about  to  see 

If  he  is  coming  yet. 

She  's  in  for  a  game  of  lovers'  hide-and-seek, 

And  longs  to  have  him  find  the  hiding-place, 

Although  she  feigns  concealment,  so  to  pique 

His  passion  to  a  chase. 

In  vain  —  he  will  not  look 

For  all  her  sweet  allurements.     Out  she  whisks 

Demurely  from  her  nook, 

As  if  she  did  not  see  and  were  not  seen, 

And  perks  herself  and  frisks 

Her  delicate  tail  as  a  lady  flirts  her  Ian, 

And  now  slips  back  again  to  her  retreat 

And  waits  for  one  hushed  moment  in  serene 

Unfluttered  expectation  that  the  plan 

Have  issue  sweet. 

What,  will  he  not  come  yet  ? 

See  how  she  glances  at  him  unawares, 

Tosses  her  head  and  gives  herself  high  airs 

In  such  a  pretty  pet. 

Cruel !  he  turns  away,    ' 
Affecting  unconcern. 

All  those  endearing  wiles  are  wrought  in  vain. 
Alas,  unlucky  flirt !  too  late  you  learn 
That  long  delays  will  make  the  eagerest  lover 
39 


Ornithology  Aweary  of  pursuing.     Nay, 

Too  late  you  fly  half  way  to  him  again. 

You  will  not  so  recover 

The  passion  that  you  played  with.     Off  he  flies 

And  now  is  lost  in  the  thick  shade 

Of  lilac  bushes  further  down  the  glade. 

Another  mistress  charms  his  amorous  eyes. 

Have  a  care,  sweetheart,  or  as  he  some  day 

I  too  will  fly  away. 


TO   AN    IRIS 

nnHOU  art  a  golden  iris 
_L  Under  a  purple  wall, 
Whereon  the  burning  sunlight 
And  greening  shadows  fall. 

What  Summer  night's  enchantment 
Took  up  the  garden  mould, 
And  with  the  falling  star-dust 
Refined  it  to  such  gold  ? 

What  wonder  of  white  magic 
Bidding  thy  soul  aspire, 
Filled  that  luxurious  body 
With  languor  and  with  fire  ? 

Wert  thou  not  once  a  beauty 
In  Persia  or  Japan, 
For  whom,  by  toiling  seaway 
Or  dusty  caravan, 

Of  old  some  lordly  lover 
Brought  countless  treasure  home 
Of  gems  and  silk  and  attar, 
To  pleasure  thee  therefrom  ? 
40 


Pale  amber  from  the  Baltic,  To  an 

Soft  rugs  of  Indian  ply, 

Stuffs  from  the  looms  of  Bagdad 

Stained  with  the  Tyrian  dye. 

Were  thy  hands  bright  with  henna, 
Thy  lashes  black  with  kohl, 
Thy  voice  like  silver  water 
Out  of  an  earthen  bowl  ? 

Or  was  thy  only  tent-cloth 
The  blue  Astartean  night, 
Thy  soul  to  beauty  given, 
Thy  body  to  delight  ? 

Wert  thou  not  well  desired, 
And-  was  not  life  a  boon, 
When  Tanis  held  in  Sidon 
Her  Mysteries  of  the  Moon  ? 

There  in  her  groves  of  ilex 
The  nightingales  made  ring 
With  the  mad  lyric  chorus 
Of  youth  and  love  and  Spring, 

Wert  thou  not  glad  to  worship 
With  some  blond  Paphian  boy, 
Illumined  by  new  knowledge 
And  intimate  with  joy  ? 

And  did  not  the  Allmother 
Smile  in  the  hushed  dim  light, 
Hearing  thy  stifled  laughter 
Disturb  her  holy  rite  ? 

41 


To  an  iris  Ah,  well  thou  must  have  served  her 
In  wise  and  gracious  ways, 
With  more  than  vestal  fervour, 
A  loved  one  all  thy  days  ! 

And  dost  thou,  then,  revisit 
Our  borders  at  her  will, 
Child  of  the  sultry  rapture, 
Waif  of  the  Orient  still  ? 

Because  thy  love  was  fearless 
And  fond  and  strong  and  free, 
Art  thou  not  her  last  witness 
To  our  apostasy  ? 

Just  at  the  height  of  summer, 
The  joy-days  of  the  year, 
She  bids,  for  our  reproval, 
Thy  radiance  appear. 

Oh,  Iris,  let  thy  spirit 
Enkindle  our  gross  clay, 
Bring  back  the  lost  earth-passion 
For  beauty  to  our  day  ! 

To-night,  when  down  the  marshes 
The  lilac  half-lights  fade, 
And  on  the  rosy  shore-line 
No  earthly  spell  is  laid, 

I  would  be  thy  new  lover, 
With  the  dark  life  renewed 
By  our  great  mother  Tanis 
And  thy  solicitude. 

42 


Feel  slowly  change  this  vesture  To  nn  Iris 

Of  mortal  flesh  and  bone, 
Transformed  by  her  soft  witch-work 
To  one  more  like  thine  own. 

Become  but  as  the  rain-wind 
(Who  am  but  dust  indeed), 
To  slake  thy  velvet  ardour 
And  soothe  thy  darling  need. 

To  dream  and  waken  with  thee 
Under  the  night's  blue  sail, 
As  the  wild  odours  freshen, 
Till  the  white  stars  grow  pale. 


BERRIS   YARE 

A   LEGEND   OF   THE   BRIER   ROSE 
Once  in  the  fairy  tale  sweet  Rose  Brier 
Climbed  to  the  bent  of  her  hearf  s  desire. 
Poor  Rose  Brier,  as  I  've  heard  tell, 
Never  came  back  with  her  folk  to  dwell. 

This  is  the  legend  of  sweet  Brier  Rose 
Out  of  a  country  that  nobody  knows. 
Dear  Brier  Rose  could  never  aspire, 
Yet  came  at  length  to  her  heart's  desire. 

SINGLE-HEART  Brier  Rose,  gipsy  desire 
Eyes  of  the  Hush-hound  and  crispy  dark  hair, 
Lyric  of  summer  dawn,  dew-drench  and  fire, 
Wilding  and  gentle  and  shy  Berris  Yare  ! 

Bide  with  me,  Brier  Rose,  here  for  an  hour. 

See  the  red  sun,  like  a  great  royal  rose, 

Flung   down   the   gray  for  the   winter's    king 

flower, 

While  Marden  sleeps  in  his  mantle  of  snows. 
43 


Bern's  Yare  Far-wandered  Brier  Rose,  how  came  we  here, 
Alien,  ease-loving,  alone  in  this  North  ? 
White  winter,  laid  at  the  heart  of  the  year, 
Heeds  us  not,  needs  us  not,  leads  us  not  forth. 

Long  ago,  Brier  Rose,  loved  we  not  thus? 
Was  it  when  Alaric  marched  against  Rome  ? 
Others  might  win  the  world ;  leave  love  for  us ! 
Dost  thou  remember  the  Visigoth  home  ? 

Think  again,  Summer-heart.     Canst  not  recall 
When  thou  wert  Brier  Rose  gladsome  and  fair? 
How  I  remember  thee,  shapely  and  tall,  — 
Far  away,  long  ago  thee,  Berris  Yare  ! 

Sword-play  for  Brier  Rose,  war  song  and  march  ; 
Throstle  for  joy  bade  the  waking  world  sing  ; 
Morning  waved  banners  out  bold  from  the  larch ; 
When  we  went  down  on  the  legions  in  spring. 

Bracelets  for  Brier  Rose,  wrought  Roman  gold; 
Tribute  and  trophy  poured  plenty  as  sand  ; 
Frost  on  the  flower-garth,  rime  on  the  wold ; 
When  we  came  triumphing  back  through  the 
land. 

How  thy  cheek,  Brier  Rose,  signalled  aflame ; 
How  the  song  rang  of  the  foemen  downborne ; 
How  the  brown  eyes  kindled  up  as  we  came 
Through  the  bowed  ranks  of  the  gleaming  red 
corn! 

Then  the  long  days  when  the  harvest  was  done ; 
Hand  in  hand,  hill  and  dale,  thou  and  I  there, 
Dreaming  of  far-off  new  isles  of  the  sun,  — 
Never  a  dream  of  this  day,  Berris  Yare  ! 
44 


Fairy-tale,  home-royal  red  of  the  rose,  Berris  Yare 

Wilding  and  well-a-day  sweet  of  the  brier  ! 
Here  in  the  gray  world  engirdled  with  snows, 
Watch  the  slow  sun  set  the  hilltops  afire  ! 


What  if,  my  Brier  Rose,  love  were  just  this : 
One  gracious  core  of  the  whirled  starry  dust, 
Round  which  the  swinging  motes,  never  amiss, 
Traverse  the  infinite  dark  as  they  must. 


All  the  earth  else  a  mere  seed-plot  of  clay, 
Fruitless  and  flowerless,  mixed  garden  mould, 
Awaiting  the  gardener,  inert,  to  obey 
When    the    first    sunbeam    bids,    "Blossoms, 
unfold ! " 


Then  the  whole  host  of  them,  gold  daffodils  ; 
Poppies  so  well  of  red  dreamland  aware  ; 
Michaelmas  daisies  smoke  blue  on  the  hills  ; 
None  like  my  Brier  Rose,  my  Berris  Yare. 


Acres  of  apple-bloom,  maids  at  the  door  ; 
Wind-hands  of   summer  with   heart-strings   to 

pull; 

Fruit  to  the  harvesting,  men  to  the  war ; 
Come  winter  speedily,  love's  year  is  full. 


Cherry-mouth  Brier  Rose,  washed  in  the  dew, 
Kiss  me  again  before  daylight  be  done,  — 
Once  for  the  old  love  and  twice  for  the  new, 
Thrice  for  the  dearest  love  under  the  sun ! 
45 


Berris  Yare  Gold  heart  of  sundowns  and  summers  forgot ! 
Treasure  of  solitude,  simple  and  wild ! 
God  in  our  poem  missed  rhyme  by  a  jot ; 
Life  never  yet  with  poor  love  reconciled. 


Wert  thou  not  Brier  Rose  once  on  a  time  ? 
Attar  of  memory,  chivalry's  dare  ! 
Love  's  the  lost  echo  of  flute-notes  at  prime, 
Wondrous,  far  wandering.     Hark,  Berris  Yare  ! 


Only  the  leaves  of  the  oaks  brown  and  sere, 
Garrulous  wiseacre,  doting  old  leaves, 
Go  whisper  others  your  cumber-world  fear,  — 
Kill-joy  foreboding  that  croaks  and  deceives! 


Heed  them  not,  Brier  Rose.     Hearken  again ! 
Nothing ?     No  breath  of  the  music  to  be? 
Ah  !  but  I  hear  the  low  footfall  of  rain,  — 
April's  clan  Joy  making  in  from  the  sea. 


April.     Think,    Brier   Rose !   how    the   earth's 

heart, 

Brook  rapture,  bird  rapture,  riot  of  rills, 
Stirs  with  old  dreams  that  rend  slumber  apart ! 
Then  the  long  twilight  dim-blue  on  the  hills. 


Hills  that  will  talk  to  me  when  thou  art  gone,  — 
That  old  solicitude,  calming  despair, 
Sweet  as  the  sundown,  austere  as  the  dawn,  — 
"  Love  that  lost  Brier  Rose,  found  Berris  Yare." 
46 


April.     Then,  Brier  Rose,  some  silent  eve,  Berris  Yare 

While  the  dusk  hears  the  hill-rivers  give  tongue, 
In  the  first  swamp-robin  I  shall  perceive 
One  golden  strain  that,  when  being  was  young, 

Kin  to  the  world-cry  and  kith  to  the  stars, 
Pierced  human  sorrows  such  ages  ago. 
Leisurely  fluting  in  gold,  broken  bars 
Comes  the  rehearsal,  serenely  and  slow, 

Prelude,  re-prelude  ;  and  then  the  full  throat, 

Mellowly,  mellowly stops  mid-stream 

Wearily,  wearily. What  may  denote 

Such  incompleteness  ?  Can  love  be  the  theme  ? 

Brother  of  Brier  Rose,  flute-master  mine 
(Then  will  this  heart-ache  out  cry  to  him  there), 
Thou  with  the  secret  in  that  flute  of  thine, 
Where  is  my  dream-fellow,  lost  Berris  Yare  ? 


A   MODERN    ECLOGUE 

SHE 

;F  you  were  ferryman  at  Charon's  ford, 
And  I  came  down  the  bank  and  called  to  you, 
Waved  you  my  hand  and  asked  to  come  aboard, 
And  threw  you  kisses  there,  what  would  you  do  ? 


I 


Would  there  be  such  a  crowd  of  other  girls, 

Pleading  and  pale  and  lonely  as  the  sea, 

You  'd  growl  in  your  old  beard,  and  shake  your 

curls, 

And  say  there  was  no  room  for  little  me  ? 
47 


A  Modern    Would  you  remember  each  of  them  in  turn  ? 
Put  all  your  faded  fancies  in  the  bow, 
And  all  the  rest  before  you  in  the  stern, 
And  row  them  out  with  panic  on  your  brow  ? 

If  I  came  down  and  offered  you  my  fare 
And  more  beside,  could  you  refuse  me  there? 


HE 

If  I  were  ferryman  in  Charon's  place, 
And  ran  that  crazy  scow  with  perilous  skill, 
I  should  be  so  worn  out  with  keeping  trace 
Of  gibbering  ghosts  and  bidding  them  sit  still, 

If  you  should  come  with  daisies  in  your  hands, 
Strewing  their  petals  on  the  sombre  stream,  — 
"  He  will  come,"  and  "  He  won't  come,"  down 

the  lands 
Of  pallid  reverie  and  ghostly  dream,  — 

I  would  let  every  clamouring  shape  stand  there, 
And  give  its  shadowy  lungs  free  vent  in  vain, 
While  you  with  earthly  roses  in  your  hair, 
And  I  grown  young  at  sight  of  you  again, 

Went  down  the  stream  once  more  at  half-past 

seven 
To  find  some  brand-new  continent  of  heaven. 


Hi 


FROM    THE    CLIFF 

[ERE  on  this  ledge,  the  broad  plain  stretched 
below, 

The  calm  hills  smiling  in  immortal  mirth, 
The  blue  sky  whitening  as  it  nears  the  earth, 
Afar  where  all  the  summits  are  aglow, 
I  feel  a  mighty  wind  upon  me  blow 
Like  God's  breath  kindling  in  my  soul  a  birth 
Of  turbulent  music  struggling  to  break  girth. 
I  pass  with  Dante  through  eternal  woe, 
Quiver  with  Sappho's  passion  at  my  heart, 
See  Pindar's  chariots  flashing  past  the  goal, 
Triumph  o'er  splendours  of  unutterable  light 
And  know  supremely  this,  O  God,  —  Thou  art, 
Feeling  in  all  this  tumult  of  my  soul 
Grand  kinship  with  the  glory  of  Thy  might. 


SEA  SONNETS 

I 

|UT  with  the  tide  —  afar,  afar,  afar, 
'Where   will  the  wide  dark  take  us,  you 
and  me  — 

The  darkness  and  the  tempest  and  the  sea? 
How  long  we  waited  where  the  tall  ships  are, 
Disconsolate  and  safe  within  the  bar  ! 
Ocean  forever  calling  us,  but  we  — 
God,  how  we  stifled  there,  nor  dared  be  free 
With  a  sharp  knife  and  night  and  the  wild 

dare ! 

But  now,  the  hawser  cut,  adrift,  away  — 
Mad  with  escape,  what  care  we  to  what  doom 
49 


Sea  Sonnets  The  bitter  night  may  bear  us  ?     Lost,  alone, 
In  a  vague  world  of  roaring  surge  astray, 
Out  with  the  tide  and  into  the  unknown, 
Compassed  about  with  rapture  and  the  gloom ! 


We  two,  waifs,  wide-eyed  and  without  fear, 
With  the  dark  swirl  of  life  about  our  prow, 
The  hollow,  heedless  swash  of  year  on  year 
That  bears  us  on  and  recks  not  where  nor  how ! 
Our  skiff  is  but  a  feather  on  the  foam, 
No  mighty  galleon  strong  to  meet  the  storm  — 
An  open  boat  —  God's  gift  to  us  for  home, 
And  but  each  other's  arms  to  keep  us  warm  ! 
What  port  for  us  to  make  ?     Our  only  star 
To  steer  by  is  the  star  of  missing  sails, 
Our  only  haven  where  the  kelpies  are  — 
Yet,  you  great  merchantmen  with  freighted 

bales, 

Rebel  and  lost  and  aimless  as  we  go, 
We  keep  a  joy  your  pride  can  never  know. 


in 

Moon  of  my  midlight !     Moon  of  the  dark  sea, 
Where  like  a  petrel's  ghost  my  sloop  is  driven ! 
Behold,  about  me  and  under  and  over  me, 
The  darkness  and  the  waters  and  the  heaven  — 
Huge,  shapeless  monsters  as  of  worlds  in  birth, 
Dragons  of  Fate,  that  hold  me  not  in  scope  — 
Bar  up  my  way  with  fierce,  indifferent  mirth, 
And  fall  in  giant  frolic  on  my  hope. 

So 


Their  next  mad  rush  may  whelm  me  in  the  wave,  Sea  Sonnets 

The  dreaded  horror  of  the  sightless  deep  — 

Only  thy  love,  like  moonlight,  pours  to  save 

My  soul  from  the  despairs  that  lunge  and  leap. 

Moon  of  my  night,  though  hell  and  death  assail, 

The  tremble  of  thy  light  is  on  my  sail. 


AT   A   SUMMER    RESORT 

TMISS  you  so  by  day,  your  look,  your  walk, 

JLThe  rustle  of  your  draperies  on  the  stair, 

Our  Leyden-jar-fuls  of  electric  talk, 

The  sense  of  you  about  me  everywhere. 

The  people  bore  me  in  the  boarding-house, 

I  hardly  can  accord  them  yes  or  no  j 

The  beauty  of  the  valleys  can  arouse 

No  such  elation  as  a  year  ago. 

But  when  the  last  dull  guest  has  gone  to  bed 

And  only  crickets  keep  me  company, 

In  the  mesmeric  night  when  truth  is  said  — 

When  you,  dear  loveliness  with  drooping  eye, 

Demurely  enter  through  the  unreal  wall, 

And  I  forget  you  went  away  at  all. 


NEW   YORK 

HHHE  low  line  of  the  walls  that  lie  outspread 
J.  Miles  on  long  miles,  the  fog  and  smoke  and 
slime, 
The   wharves   and   ships    with   flags    of  every 

clime, 

The  domes  and  steeples  rising  overhead ! 
Si 


New  York    It  is  not  these.     Rather  it  is  the  tread 

Of  the  million  heavy  feet  that  keep  sad  time 
To    heavy    thoughts,    the   want    that   mothers 

crime, 

The  weary  toiling  for  a  bitter  bread, 
The  perishing  of  poets  for  renown, 
The   shriek    of    shame    from    the    concealing 

waves. 

Ah,  me  !  how  many  heart-beats  day  by  day 
Go  to  make  up  the  life  of  the  vast  town  ! 
O  myriad  dead  in  unremembered  graves  ! 
O  torrent  of  the  living  down  Broadway  ! 


A   GROTESQUE 

OUR  Gothic  minds  have  gargoyle  fancies. 
Odd, 

That  there  will  come  a  day  when  you  and  I 
Shall  not  be  you  and  I,  that  we  shall  lie,  N 
We  two,  in  the  damp  earth-mould,  above  each 

clod 

A  drunken  headstone  in  the  neglected  sod, 
Thereon  the  phrase,  Hie  Jacet,  worn  awry, 
And  then  our  virtues,  bah  !  —  and  piety  — 
Perhaps  some  cheeky  reference  to  God  ! 
And  haply  after  many  a  century 
Some  spectacled  old  man  shall  drive  the  birds 
A  moment  from  their  song  in  the  lonely  spot 
And  make  a  copy  of  the  quaint  old  words  — 
They  will  then  be  quaint  and  old  —  and  all  for 

what? 

To  fill  a  gap  in  a  genealogy. 
52 


WHEN    THE    PRIEST    LEFT 

WHAT  did  he  say? 
To  seek  love  otherwhere 
Nor  bind  the  soul  to  clay  ? 
It  may  be  so  —  I  cannot  tell  — 
But  I  know  that  life  is  fair, 
And  love's  bold  clarion  in  the  air 
Outdins  his  little  vesper-bell. 

Love  God  ?     Can   I   touch  God  with  both  my 

hands  ? 

Can  I  breathe  in  his  hair  and  brush  his  cheek 
He  is  too  far  to  seek. 
If  nowhere  else  be  love,  who  understands 
What  thing  it  is? 

This  love  is  but  a  name  that  wise  men  speak. 
God  hath  no  lips  to  kiss. 

Let  God  be ;  surely,  if  he  will, 
At  the  end  of  days, 
He  can  win  love  as  well  as  praise. 
Why  must  we  spill 
The  human  love  out  at  his  feet  ? 
Let  be  this  talk  of  good  and  ill ! 
Though   God  be   God,  art  thou   not  fair  and 
sweet  ? 


Open  the  window  ;  let  the  air 

Blow  in  on  us. 

It  is  enough  to  find  you  fair, 

To  touch  with  fingers  timorous 

Your  sunlit  hair,  — 

To  turn  my  body  to  a  prayer, 

And  kiss  you  —  thus. 

53 


I 


THE   GIFT  OF  ART    A  FRAGMENT 

DREAMED  that  a  child  was  born  ;  and  at 
his  birth 

The  Angel  of  the  Word  stood  by  the  hearth 
And  spake  to  her  that  bare  him  :  "  Look  without ! 
Behold  the  beauty  of  the  Day,  the  shout 
Of  colour  to  glad  colour,  rocks  and  trees 
And  sun  and  sea  and  wind  and  sky  !     All  these 
Are  God's  expression,  art-work  of  his  hand, 
Which  men  must  love  ere  they  may  understand, 
By  which  alone  he  speaks  till  they  have  grace 
To  hear  his  voice  and  look  upon  his  face. 
For  first  and  last  of  all  things  in  the  heart 
Of  God  as  man  the  glory  is  of  art. 
What  gift  could  God  bestow  or  man  beseech, 
Save  spirit  unto  spirit  uttered  speech  ? 
Wisdom  were  not,  for  God  himself  could  find 
No  way  to  reach  the  unresponsive  mind, 
Sweet  Love  were  dead,  and  all  the  crowded  skies 
A  loneliness  and  not  a  Paradise. 
Teach  the  child  language,  mother.  ..." 


TO   JAMES   WHITCOMB   RILEY 

THOUGH  aiblins  some  deserve  as  highly 
O'  that  braw  winsome  lass  an'  wily 
Wha  gi'es  a  kiss  to  bardies  slyly 
An'  sets  'em  liltin', 
I  ken  there 's  nane  can  equal  Riley 
To  'scape  her  jiltin'. 
How  comes  it,  man,  ye  ken  sae  well 
The  Muse's  tricks  ?     Hae  ye  a  spell 
54 


To  keep  her  sae  a'  to  yoursel',  To  James 

An'  fu' in  Fame's  e'e?  ™° 

Fame  ?  —  let  that  hizzie  gae  to  hell ! 
Here  's  to  you,  Jamesie  ! 


TO   RUDYARD    KIPLING 

WHAT  need  have  you  of  praising?     Could 
I  find 

Some  lonely  poet  no  one  praises  yet, 
Him  rather  would  I  choose,  that  he  might  know 
A  fellow-craftsman  knew  him,  marked  him,  loved. 
But  you  —  the  whole  world  praises  you.    What 

need 

Have  you  of  any  speech  I  have  to  give  ? 
Yet  for  the  craft's  sake  I  must  give  you  praise ; 
And  for  the  craft's  sake  you  will  pardon  me. 
But  I  would  rather  meet  you  face  to  face 
And  talk  of  other  and  indifferent  things, 
And  say  no  word  of  all  that  I  would  say, 
Praise  and  thanksgiving  for  your  splendid  song, 
Praise   and  the   pride  of   the   empires  of  the 

Blood  — 

But  leave  you,  silent,  as  we  English  do  — 
And  you   would   know  —  and  you   would  un- 
derstand. 


ROMANY   SIGNS 

On  the  publication  of  "  Patrins"  by  Louise  Imogen 

Guiney. 

"F  I  should  wander  out  some  afternoon 
[About  the  end  of  May  or  early  June, 
And  at  a  crossroads  in  the  hills  discover 
A  spray  of  apple  or  a  sprig  of  clover, 
55 


r 


Romany    Set  for  a  sign  to  tell  who  went  that  way, 

Which  road  he  took  and  how  he  fared  that  day, 
"  Ho,  ho,"  I  'cL  whistle,  "here's  a  gipsy  token, 
As  plain  as  if  the  very  word  were  spoken." 

Then  down  I  turn,  hot  foot,  and  off  I  trudge 
Hard    on     his     trail,    while    sceptics     mutter, 

"Fudge!" 

They  know  the  way,  these  travel-wise  Egyptians, 
And  I  —  enough  to  follow  their  inscriptions. 

So,  bless  you !  in  a  mile  or  two  at  most, 
I  've  overtaken,  almost  passed,  my  host 
Camped  in  the  finest  grove  in  all  the  county 
And  bidding  me  to  supper  on  his  bounty. 

There's  nothing  like  a  bit  of  open  sky 

To  give  a  touch  of  poetry  to  pie ; 

And  here 's  a  poem  (call  it  Sphinx  in  Myrtle) 

Would  make  an  alderman  forget  his  turtle. 

Now,  there  's  a  Romany  in  Auburndale, 
Wild  as  a  faun  and  sound  as  cakes  and  ale, 
One  of  the  tribe  of  Stevenson  and  Borrow, 
Who  live  to-day  and  let  alone  to-morrow. 

(God  keeps  a  few  still  living  in  the  sun,  — 
The  man  who  wrote  The  Seven  Seas,  for  one, 
And  Island  Stoddard,  —  just  to  prove  the  folly 
Of  smug  repose  and  pious  melancholy.) 

So  when  I  see  her  signal  in  the  hedge, 

(I  mean  her  new  book  on  the  counter's  edge,) 

"Ho,  ho,"  say  I,  "that  Guiney's  broken  loose 

again, 

Cut  a  new  quill  and  put  her  craft  to  use  again." 
56 


Enough  for  me  !  I  'm  off.     And,  fellows  all,       Romany 
Who  could  resist  the  Auburndalean  call 
To  go  a-foraging  ?   That 's  what  the  spring  's  for, 
What   bards  have  wits  and  bumblebees   have 
wings  for. 

I  '11  warrant  here  's  a  road  to  Arcady 
With  goodly  cheer  and  merry  company, 
Skirting  the  pleasant  foot-hills  of  Philosophy, 
Far  from  the  quaggy  marshes  of  Theosophy. 

O  for  the  trail,  wherever  it  may  lead, 
From  small  credulity  to  larger  creed, 
Till  we  behold  this  world  without  detraction 
As  God  did  seven  times  with  satisfaction ! 


THE   MAN   WITH   THE   TORTOISE 

TO    W.    M.    F. 

SUCH  curious  things  the  mind  bids  stay, 
Of  the  thousand  and  one  that  pass  it  by ! 
The  morning  we  walked  through  Paris  in  May, 
If  you  remember  as  well  as  I, 

There  happened — a  nothing —  an  incident  — 
One  of  those  trifles  that  flit  half  seen, 
Save  where  the  spirit  sits  intent, 
Furtive  and  shy  at  her  window  screen. 

The  servants'  gossip  of  eye  and  ear 
May  surge  and  hum  at  her  door  in  spring 
Of  the  pageant  of  beauty  drawing  near, 
But  she  —  she  is  watching  a  stranger  thing! 
57 


The  Man  The  myriad  rabble  of  fact  and  form 

Mav  gleam  till  the  senses  dance  with  glee  ; 
But  calm,  unmoved  as  the  very  norm 
And  centre  of  being,  muses  she ; 

Indifferent  to  loveliness,  line  or  hue, 
Till  a  chance  bird-wing  or  a  slant  sun-ray 
May  fall  as  prompt  as  an  actor's  cue, 
And  there  is  her  part.     So  it  was  that  day. 

We  had  turned  from  your  door  in  the  rue  Vignon, 
The  third  on  the  left  from  the  Madelaine.  .  .  . 
Forget  it  ?     There  's  no  forgetting  when  one 
Is  come  at  length  to  his  Castle  in  Spain. 

For  you  were  the  friend  I  had  loved  of  old, 
And  pictured  so  often  in  Paris  here, 
And  promised  myself  some  day  to  hold 
Unaltered  and  safe  and  sound,  no  fear. 

For  our  mistress  Nature  is  great  and  wise, 
And  the  love  of  her  is  eternity ; 
But  there  comes  a  day  when  a  man  must  rise 
And  go  where  the  heart  in  him  longs  to  be. 

So  the  sea  was  crossed,  and  the  hour  was  come; 
It  was  hand  on  shoulder  with  us  once  more. 
There  was  speech  enough  though  the  lips  were 

dumb, 
When  I  stood  at  last  at  your  modest  door. 

Your  breakfast  of  capon  and  Burgundy, 
Our  talk  of  Harvard  and  Norton's  fame, 
And  your  friend  the  Druse,  with  cigars  laid  by  — 
Your  gift  from  the  Baroness  What  's-her-name. 
58 


Then  into  the  street  of  the  Capucines  The 

in  the  blaze  of  the  Paris  sun  we  strolled;  Tort 

Once  more  at  touch  of  your  blithe  light  mien 
I  knew  how  a  springflower  breaks  the  mould. 

Through  the  gay  May  weather  when  life  was 

good, 

Idly  we  sauntered  from  block  to  block, 
Till  round  a  corner  appeared,  and  stood, 
A  fellow  in  workman's  cap  and  smock, 

Basket  on  arm  and  whistling  low 
To  something  held  in  the  rough  right  hand. 
A  tortoise  !     Yes,  and  the  creature,  so, 
Grown  tame  at  the  music's  soft  command, 

Emboldened  to  peep  from  the  safe  snug  shell, 
Had  pushed  up  its  head  to  the  whistler's  face, 
The  least  of  wild  things  under  the  spell 
Of  the  last  and  humblest  of  Orpheus'  race. 

A  fragment  from  some  Greek  Idyllist, 
The  plain  good  look  of  the  bolder  text, 
Preserving  for  us  the  colour  and  gist 
Of  a  simple  age  and  a  life  unvexed. 

Did  the  beast  recall  how  the  syrinx  blew 
When  his  father  Pan  first  notched  a  reed  ? 
Was  it  some  familiar  note  he  knew 
In  the  workman's  whistle  that  made  him  heed  ? 

Did  there  wake  remembrance  dim  and  large 
Of  the  drench  and  glamour,  the  mist  and  gleam, 
Of  a  morning  once  by  the  shining  marge 
And  murmurous  run  of  a  Dorian  stream  ? 
59 


The  Man    Or  was  it  only  the  reedy  plash 
*TortoiL     ^f  a  Norman  river,  sunny  and  small, 

Where  a  sound  of  wind  in  the  scarlet  ash, 
Blown  high,  blown  low,  once  held  him  thrall  ? 

Was  there  nought  but  the  sweet  luxurious  thrill 
Of  the  senses,  strung  to  rhythm  and  time  ? 
No  shadow  of  soul,  to  remember  and  fill 
The  shell  that  day  with  a  joy  sublime? 

So  still,  as  for  very  life  he  feared 
To  lose  one  note  of  the  wild  sweet  strain. 
Ah,  mortal,  blow  till  thy  breath  has  cleared 
Ages  of  dust  from  a  haunted  brain  ! 

And  often  I  think,  as  the  days  go  by, 
Of  our  whistling  man  and  the  small  mute  friend 
He  had  charmed.     And  a  scrap  of  legendry 
Has  always  given  the  thought  a  trend. 

An  Indian  myth  (you  will  pardon  its  worth  !) 
Says  a  tortoise,  firm  in  his  arching  shell, 
Upbears  the  creature  that  bears  the  earth  ; 
But  what  holds  the  tortoise  none  can  tell. 

The  tortoise,  I  venture,  may  symbolise 
The  husk  of  being,  the  outward  world, 
The  substance  of  beauty,  each  form  and  guise 
Where  the   lurking    mind   is   ensheathed,    en- 
curled. 

And  suppose  at  the  lip  of  the  shell  there  stood 
A  mortal  bent  on  the  strange  and  new, 
Trying  each  cadence  wild  and  rude, 
Till  the  magic  melody  he  blew  ! 
60 


What  glimpse  to  that  cunning  dweller  in  clay      The  M 
Might  not  the  old  tortoise  Earth  afford 
Of  her  very  self,  some  morning  in  May, 
Emerged  for  once  to  the  perfect  chord  ! 


THE   SCEPTICS 

TT  was  the  little  leaves  beside  the  road. 

Said  Grass,  "What  is  that  sound 

So  dismally  profound, 

That  detonates  and  desolates  the  air  ?  " 

"  That  is  St.  Peter's  bell," 

Said  rain-wise  Pimpernel; 

"  He  is  music  to  the  godly, 

Though  to  us  he  sounds  so  oddly, 

And  he  terrifies  the  faithful  unto  prayer." 

Then  something  very  like  a  groan 
Escaped  the  naughty  little  leaves. 

Said  Grass,  "  And  whither  track 

These  creatures  all  in  black, 

So  woebegone  and  penitent  and  meek?" 

"  They  're  mortals  bound  for  church," 

Said  the  little  Silver  Birch ; 

"  They  hope  to  get  to  heaven 

And  have  their  sins  forgiven, 

If  they  talk  to  God  about  it  once  a  week." 

And  something  very  like  a  smile 
Ran  through  the  naughty  little  leaves. 
61 


The  Sceptics  Said  Grass,  "  What  is  that  noise 
That  startles  and  destroys 
Our    blessed    summer    brooding  when  we  're 

tired?" 

"  That 's  folk  a-praising  God," 
Said  the  tough  old  cynic  Clod  ; 
"  They  do  it  every  Sunday, 
They  '11  be  all  right  on  Monday ; 
It 's  just  a  little  habit  they  Ve  acquired." 

And  laughter  spread  among  the  little  leaves. 


THANKSGIVING 

I  THANK  thee,  Earth,  for  water  good, 
The  sea's  great  bath  of  buoyant  green 
Or  the  cold  mountain  torrent's  flood, 
That  I  may  keep  this  body  clean. 

I  thank  thee  more  for  goodly  wine, 
That  wise  as  Omar  I  may  be, 
Or  Horace  when  he  went  to  dine 
With  Lydia  or  with  Lalage. 


STACCATO   TO   O   LE    LUPE 

OLE  LUPE,  Gelett    Burgess,  this   is  very 
sad  to  find  : 
In  The  Bookman  for  September,  in  a  manner 

most  unkind, 

There  appears  a  half-page  picture,  makes  me 
think  I  Ve  lost  my  mind. 
62 


They  have  reproduced  a  window,  —  Doxey's A  staccato 
window,  —  ( I  dare  say  g  Le  Lupe 

In  your  rambles  you  have  seen   it,  passed   it 
twenty  times  a  day,) 

As  "  A  Novel  Exhibition  of  Examples  of  Decay." 

There  is  Nordau  we  all  sneer  at,  and  Verlaine 

we  all  adore, 
And  a  little  book  of  verses  with  its  betters  by 

the  score, 
With  three  faces  on  the  cover  I  believe  I  Ve 

seen  before. 


Well,  here 's   matter  for  reflection,  makes  me 

wonder  where  I  am. 
Here  is  Ibsen  the  gray  lion,  linked  to  Beardsley 

the  black  lamb. 
I  was  never  out  of  Boston ;  all  that  I  can  say  is, 

"  Damn !  " 


Who  could  think,  in   two  short  summers   we 

should  cause  so  much  remark, 
With  no  purpose  but  our  pastime,  and  to  make 

the  public  hark, 
When   I  soloed  on    The  Chap-Book,  and  you 

answered  with  The  Lark  ! 


Do  young  people  take  much  pleasure  when  they 

read  that  sort  of  thing? 
"Well,  they  buy  it,"  answered  Doxey,  "and  I 

take  what  it  will  bring. 
Publishers    may  dread    extinction  —  not  with 

such  fads  on  the  string. 
63 


A  staccato  "There  is  always  sale  for  something,  and  de- 
*O  Le  Lute       mand  for  what  is  new. 

These  young  men  who  are  so  restless,  and  have 

nothing  else  to  do, 

Like  to  think  there  is  '  a  movement,'  just  to  keep 
themselves  in  view. 

"  There  is  nothing  in  Decadence  but  the  magic 

of  a  name. 
People  talk  and  papers  drivel,  scent  a  vice,  and 

hint  a  shame ; 
And  all  that  is  good  for  business,  helps  to  boom 

my  little  game." 

But  when  I  sit  down  to  reason,  think  to  stand 

upon  my  nerve, 
Meditate  on  portly  leisure   with    a   balance   in 

reserve, 
In  he  comes  with  his  "  Decadence  !  "  like  a  fly 

in  my  preserve. 

I   can  see  myself,  O   Burgess,  half  a  century 

from  now, 
Laid  to  rest  among  the  ghostly,  like  a  broken 

toy  somehow, 
All  my  lovely  songs  and  ballads  vanished  with 

your  "  Purple  Cow." 

But  I  will  return  some  morning,  though  I  know 

it  will  be  hard, 
To  Cornhill  among  the  bookstalls,  and  surprise 

some  minor  bard, 
Turning  over  their  old  rubbish  for  the  treasures 

we  discard. 

64 


I  shall  warn  him  like  a  critic,  creeping  when  hisA  staccato 
back  is  turned,  %  Le  L 

"  Ink  and  paper,  dead  and  done  with  ;  Doxey 
spent  what  Doxey  earned ; 

Poems  doubtless  are  immortal,  where  a  poem 
can  be  discerned  !  " 

How  his  face  will  go  to  ashes,  when  he  feels  his 

empty  purse  ! 
How  he  '11  wish  his  vogue  were  greater;  plume 

himself  it  is  no  worse ; 
Then  go  bother  the  dear  public  with  his  puny 

little  verse ! 

Don't  I  know  how  he  will  pose  it ;  patronize 
our  larger  time ; 

"  Poor  old  Browning ;  little  Kipling ;  what  at- 
tempts they  made  to  rhyme !  " 

Just  let  me  have  half  an  hour  with  that  nincom- 
poop sublime ! 

I  will  haunt  him  like  a  purpose,  I  will  ghost  him 

like  a  fear ; 
When  he  least  expects  my  presence,  I  '11  be 

mumbling  in  his  ear, 
"  O  Le  Lupe  lived  in  Frisco,  and  I  lived  in 

Boston  here. 

"Never  heard  of  us?     Good  heavens,  can  you 

nevef  have  been  told 
Of  the  Larks  we  used  to  publish,  and  the  Chap- 

Books  that  we  sold  ? 
Where  are  all  our  first  editions?  "     I  feel  damp 

and  full  of  mould. 

65 


A   SPRING   FEELING 

I  THINK  it  must  be  spring.     I  feel 
All  broken  up  and  thawed. 
I  'm  sick  of  everybody's  "  wheel ; " 
I  'm  sick  of  being  jawed. 


I  am  too  winter-killed  to  live, 
Cold-sour  through  and  through. 

0  Heavenly  Barber,  come  and  give 
My  soul  a  dry  shampoo  ! 

1  'm  sick  of  all  these  nincompoops, 
Who  weep  through  yards  of  verse, 
And  all  these  sonneteering  dupes 
Who  whine  and  froth  and  curse. 

I  'm  sick  of  seeing  my  own  name 
Tagged  to  some  paltry  line, 
While  this  old  corpus  without  shame 
Sits  down  to  meat  and  wine. 

I  'm  sick  of  all  these  Yellow  Books, 
And  all  these  Bodley  Heads; 
I  'm  sick  of  all  these  freaks  and  spooks 
And  frights  in  double  leads. 

When  good  Napoleon's  publisher 
Was  dangled  from  a  limb, 
He  should  have  had  an  editor 
On  either  side  of  him. 

I  'm  sick  of  all  this  taking  on 
Under  a  foreign  name  ; 
For  when  you  call  it  decadent, 
It 's  rotten  just  the  same. 
66 


I  'm  sick  of  all  this  puling  trash  A  Spring 

And  namby-pamby  rot,  — 
A  Pegasus  you  have  to  thrash 
To  make  him  even  trot! 

An  Age-end  Art !     I  would  not  give, 
For  all  their  plotless  plays, 
One  round  Flagstaffian  adjective 
Or  one  Miltonic  phrase. 

I  'm  sick  of  all  this  poppycock 
In  bilious  green  and  blue; 
I  'm  tired  to  death  of  taking  stock 
Of  everything  that 's  "  New." 

New  Art,  New  Movements,  and  New  Schools, 
All  maimed  and  blind  and  halt ! 
And  all  the  fads  of  the  New  Fools 
Who  cannot  earn  their  salt. 

I  'm  sick  of  the  New  Woman,  too. 
Good  Lord,  she  's  worst  of  all. 
Her  rights,  her  sphere,  her  point  of  view, 
And  all  that  folderol ! 

She  makes  me  wish  I  were  the  snake 
Inside  of  Eden's  wall, 
To  give  the  tree  another  shake, 
And  see  another  fall. 

I  'm  very  much  of  Byron's  mind ; 
I  like  sufficiency ; 
But  just  the  common  garden  kind 
Is  good  enough  for  me. 
67 


A  spring  \  want  to  find  a  warm  beech  wood, 
hng     And  lie  down,  and  keep  still ; 

And  swear  a  little  ;  and  feel  good ; 
Then  loaf  on  up  the  hill, 

And  let  the  Spring  house-clean  my  brain, 
Where  all  this  stuff  is  crammed  ; 
And  let  my  heart  grow  sweet  again ; 
And  let  the  Age  be  damned. 


HER  VALENTINE 

WHAT,  send  her  a  valentine ?     Never ! 
I  see  you  don't  know  who  "  she  "  is. 
I  should  ruin  my  chances  forever  ; 
My  hopes  would  collapse  with  a  fizz. 

I  can't  see  why  she  scents  such  disaster 
When  I  take  heart  to  venture  a  word  ; 
I  've  no  dream  of  becoming  her  master, 
I  've  no  notion  of  being  her  lord. 

All  I  want  is  to  just  be  her  lover ! 
She  's  the  most  up-to-date  of  her  sex, 
And  there  's  such  a  multitude  of  her, 
No  wonder  they  call  her  complex. 

She  's  a  bachelor,  even  when  married, 
She  's  a  vagabond,  even  when  housed  ; 
And  if  ever  her  citadel 's  carried 
Her  suspicions  must  not  be  aroused. 
68 


She 's  erratic,  impulsive  and  human,  Her 

And  she  blunders,  —  as  goddesses  can  ;  Valentin* 

But  if  she's  what  they  call  the  New  Woman, 
Then  fd  like  to  be  the  New  Man. 

I  'm  glad  she  makes  books  and  paints  pictures, 
And  typewrites  and  hoes  her  own  row, 
And  it 's  quite  beyond  reach  of  conjectures 
How  much  further  she  's  going  to  go. 

When  she  scorns,  in  the  L-road,  my  proffer 
Of  a  seat  and  hangs  on  to  a  strap ; 
I  admire  her  so  much,  I  could  offer 
To  let  her  ride  up  on  my  Jap. 

Let  her  undo  the  stays  of  the  ages, 
That  have  cramped  and  confined  her  so  long ! 
Let  her  burst  through  the  frail  candy  cages 
That  fooled  her  to  think  they  were  strong ! 

She  may  enter  life 's  wide  vagabondage, 
She  may  do  without  flutter  or  frill, 
She  may  take  off  the  chains  of  her  bondage, — 
And  anything  else  that  she  will. 

She  may  take  me  off,  for  example, 
And  she  probably  does  when  I  'm  gone. 
I  'm  aware  the  occasion  is  ample ; 
That 's  why  I  so  often  take  on. 

I  'm  so  glad  she  can  win  her  own  dollars 
And  know  all  the  freedom  it  brings. 
I  love  her  in  shirt-waists  and  collars, 
I  love  her  in  dress-reform  things. 
69 


I  love  her  in  bicycle  skirtlings  — 
jrspecjaiiy  when  there 's  a  breeze  — 
I  love  her  in  crinklings  and  quirklings 
And  anything  else  that  you  please. 

I  dote  on  her  even  in  bloomers  — 
If  Parisian  enough  in  their  style  — 
In  fact,  she  may  choose  her  costumers, 
Wherever  her  fancy  beguile. 

She  may  box,  she  may  shoot,  she  may  wrestle, 
She  may  argue,  hold  office  or  vote, 
She  may  engineer  turret  or  trestle, 
And  build  a  few  ships  that  will  float. 

She  may  lecture  (all  lectures  but  curtain) 
Make  money,  and  naturally  spend, 
If  I  let  her  have  her  way,  I  'm  certain 
She  '11  let  me  have  mine  in  the  end  ! 


IN   PHILISTIA 

all  the  places  on  the  map, 
'Some  queer  and  others  queerer, 
Arcadia  is  dear  to  me, 
Philistia  is  dearer. 


O! 


There  dwell  the  few  who  never  knew 
The  pangs  of  heavenly  hunger, 
As  fresh  and  fair  and  fond  and  frail 
As  when  the  world  was  younger. 
70 


If  there  is  any  sweeter  sound 
Than  bobolinks  or  thrushes, 
It  is  the  frou-frou  of  their  silks  — 
The  roll  of  their  barouches. 

I  love  them  even  when  they  're  good, 
As  well  as  when  they  're  sinners  — 
When  they  are  sad  and  worldly  wise 
And  when  they  are  beginners. 

(I  say  I  do  ;  of  course  the  fact, 
For  better  or  for  worse,  is, 
My  unerratic  life  denies 
My  too  erotic  verses.) 

I  dote  upon  their  waywardness, 
Their  foibles  and  their  follies. 
If  there  's  a  madder  pate  than  Di's, 
Perhaps  it  may  be  Dolly's. 

They  have  no  "  problems  "  to  discuss, 
No  "  theories  "  to  discover ; 
They  are  not  "  new  "  ;  and  I  —  I  am 
Their  very  grateful  lover. 

I  care  not  if  their  minds  confuse 

Alastor  with  Aladdin  ; 

And  Cimabue  is  far  less 

To  them  than  Chimmie  Fadden. 

They  never  heard  of  William  Blake, 
Nor  saw  a  Botticelli  ; 
Yet  one  is,  "  Yours  till  death,  Louise," 
And  one,  "  Your  loving  Nelly." 
71 


in  Phuistia  They  never  tease  me  for  my  views, 
Nor  tax  me  with  my  grammar  ; 
Nor  test  me  on  the  latest  news, 
Until  I  have  to  stammer. 

They  never  talk  about  their  "  moods," 
They  never  know  they  have  them ; 
The  world  is  good  enough  for  them, 
And  that  is  why  I  love  them. 

They  never  puzzle  me  with  Greek, 
Nor  drive  me  mad  with  Ibsen  ; 
Yet  over  forms  as  fair  as  Eve's 
They  wear  the  gowns  of  Gibson. 


PEACE 

'T^HERE  is  peace,  you  say.     I  believe  you. 
_L  Peace  ?     Ay,  we  know  it  well  — 
Not  the    peace  of  the  smile  of  God,  but  the 

peace  of  the  leer  of  Hell, 
Peace,  that  the  rich  may  fatten  and  barter  their 

souls  for  gain, 
Peace,  that  the  hungry  may  slay  and  rob  the 

corpse  of  the  slain, 
Peace,  that  the   heart  of  the  people  may  rot 

with  a  vile  gangrene. 
What  though  the  men  are  bloodless !     What 's 

a  man  to  a  machine  ? 

Here  you  come  with  your  Economics.     If  ever 

the  Devil  designed 
A  science,  'twas  yours,  I  doubt  not,  a  study  to 

Hell's  own  mind, 

72 


Merciless,  soulless,  sordid,  the  science  of  selfish  Pt 

greed, 
Blind  to  the  light  of  wisdom,  and  deaf  to  the 

voice  of  need. 
And  you  prate  of  the  wealth  of  nations,  as  if  it 

were  bought  and  sold  ! 
The   wealth  of  nations   is  men,  not  silk  and 

cotton  and  gold. 


How  will  you  measure  in  money  the  cost  of 
knowledge  and  Art  ? 

Is  honour  valued  in  bank-notes  ?  Can  you  pay 
for  a  broken  heart  ? 

Can  you  reckon  the  worth  of  a  poem  by  a  stand- 
ard of  meat  and  drink  ? 

Can  you  buy  with  gold  and  silver  a  heart  too 
great  to  shrink? 

Tell  me,  how  many  dollars  will  pay  for  the  life- 
blood  shed 

From  the  veins  of  the  true  and  valiant  who 
feared  not  and  are  dead  ? 


Battle  is  fearful  —  I  grant  it.     The  fields  are 

burnt  bare  with  its  breath, 
Death  and  the  wrongs  of  women  that  cry  out 

louder  than  death, 
The  grime   and  the   trampled    faces   and   the 

shrieking  of  shells  in  the  air, 
White  lips  of  victims  that  pray  and  there  comes 

no  help  for  their  prayer, 
And  Famine  that  follows  the  armies,  and  Crime 

that  skulks  in  their  rear,  — 
These   are   fearful   alike  to   the   soldiers  that 

strike  and  the  cravens  that  fear. 
73 


Peace  But  there 's  yet  one  woe  far  worse  than  war  with 

its  griefs  and  graves  — 
To  sink  to  a  nation  of  cowards,   sycophants, 

thieves  and  slaves, 
There   is  one  thing  for   man  or  nation  more 

within  man's  control 
And  worse  than  the  death  of  the  body,  and  that 

is  the  death  of  the  soul. 
But  the  sins  of  the  city  are  silent  and  her  ruin 

is  wrought  by  stealth 
And  the  sores  that  fester  are  cloaked  and  her 

rottenness  masks  as  health. 


True  Peace  is  a  holy  thing  —  the  peace  God 

gives  to  his  own, 
Heart's  peace,  though  the  body  move  where  the 

thickest  shot  is  thrown, 
Deeps  of  peace  forever  unplumbed  by  a  mortal 

eye  — 
But  the  peace  of  the  world  is  the  Devil's,  a 

mockery  and  a  lie, 
Better  city  arrayed  against  city  and  hamlet  with 

hamlet  at  strife, 
So  valour  outvalue  lucre  and  honour  be  more 

than   life. 


LYRIC 

From  the  French  of  Maurice  Maeterlinck. 

AND  if  some  day  he  come  back, 
What  should  he  be  told  ?  — 
Tell  him  he  was  waited  for, 
Till  my  heart  was  cold. 
74 


And  if  he  ask  me  yet  again,  A  Lyric 

Not  recognizing  me  ?  — 
Speak  him  fair  and  sisterly  ; 
His  heart  breaks,  maybe. 

And  if  he  ask  me  where  you  are, 
What  shall  I  reply?  — 
Give  him  my  golden  ring, 
And  make  no  reply. 

And  if  he  ask  me  why  the  hall 
Is  left  desolate?  — 
Show  him  the  unlit  lamp 
And  the  open  gate. 

And  if  he  should  ask  me,  then, 
How  you  fell  asleep  ?  — 
Tell  him  that  I  smiled,  for  fear 
Lest  he  should  weep. 


N! 


THE   LOST    COMRADE 

TOW  who  will  tell  me  aright 

I  The  way  my  lost  companion  went  in  the 

night  ? 
My  vanished   comrade  who  passed  from  the 

roofs  of  men, 
And  will  not  come  again. 

I  have  wandered  up  and  down 

Through  all  the  streets  of  this  bright  and  busy 

town, 

Yet  no  one  has  seen  a  trace  of  him  since  the  day 
He  silently  went  away. 
75 


*  have  haunted  the  wharves  and  the  slips, 
And  talked  with  foreigners  from  the  incoming 

ships ; 
But  when  I  questioned  them  closely  about  my 

friend, 
They  seemed  not  to  comprehend. 

From  men  of  book-learning,  too, 

I  have  sought  knowledge,  confident  that  they 

knew  ; 

But  when  I  inquired  simply  about  my  chum, 
They  glanced  at  me  and  were  dumb. 

I  have  entered  your  churches  of  stone, 

And  heard  discourse  about  God  and  the  throng 

round  his  throne ; 
But  the  preacher  knew  nothing  at  all,  when  I 

broke  in  with,  "  Where  ?  " 
And  the  people  could  only  stare. 

Ah,  no,  you  may  read  and  read, 

Pile  modern  heresy  upon  ancient  creed  ! 

But  for  all  your  study  you  know  no  more  than  I, 

Under  the  open  sky. 

So  't  is,  Back  to  the  Inn  !  for  me, 

Where  my  great  friend  and  I  were  happy  and 

free. 
And  I  will  remember  his  beautiful  words  and 

his  ways, 
For  the  rest  of  my  days. 

How  eager  he  was  for  truth, 
Yet  never  scorned  the  good  things  of  his  youth, 
The  soul  of  gentleness  and  the  soul  of  love  ! 
I  shall  be  wise  enough. 
76 


TEN   COMMANDMENTS 
//  is  right: 

I.    LOVE 

TO  love  everybody  a  little  and  some  people  a 
great  deal. 

n.   FAITH 

To  trust  the  God  who  made  us  is  good  and  will 
not  forget  us. 

III.    OBEDIENCE 

To  obey  those  who  have  the  right  to  hold  them- 
selves responsible  for  us. 

IV.    HOPE 

To  look  on  the  bright  side  of  things  and  keep  a 
good  heart  up. 

V.    COURAGE 

To  dare  do  whatever  we  think  we  ought  to  do. 

VI.     CHEERFULNESS 

To  express  our  good,  happy  feelings,  not  the 
others. 

VII.    PRUDENCE 

To  use  our  intelligence  to  avoid  trouble. 


//  is  wrong  : 

VIII 

To  hate  or  hurt  any  one,  except  for  a  greater 
good;  to  be  mean  and  selfish  ;  to  be  unjust. 

IX 

To  tell  lies,  except  when  people  ask  what  they 
have  no  right  to  know. 

x 

To  do  anything  dirty,  or  ugly,  or  intemperate. 

77 


QUATRAINS 

I 

IFE  as  it  is  !     Accept  it;  it  is  thine  ! 
/The  God  that  gave  it,  gave  it  for  thy  good. 
The  God  that  made  it  had  not  been  divine 
Could  he  have  set  thee  poison  for  thy  food. 


u 


II 

Abstain  not ;  Life  and  Love,  like  night  and  day, 
Offer  themselves  to  us  on  their  own  terms, 
—  Not  ours.    Accept  their  bounty  while  ye  may, 
Before  we  be  accepted  by  the  worms. 

in 
We  rail  at  Time  and   Chance,  and  break  our 

hearts 

To  make  the  glory  of  to-day  endure. 
Is  the  sun  dead  because  the  day  departs? 
And  are  the  suns  of  Life  and  Love  less  sure  ? 

IV 

Fear  not  the  menace  of  the  bye-and-bye. 
To-day  is  ours;  to-morrow  Fate  must  give. 
Stretch  out  your  hands  and  eat,  although  ye 

die! 
Better  to  die  than  never  once  to  live. 


THE   ADVENTURERS 

WE  are  adventurers  who  come 
Before  the  merchants  and  the  priests  ; 
Our  only  legacy  from  home, 
A  wisdom  older  than  the  East's. 
78 


Soldiers  of  Fortune,  we  unfurl 
The  banners  of  a  forlorn  hope, 
Leaving  the  city  smoke  to  curl 
O'er  dingy  roofs  where  puppets  mope. 

We  are  the  Ishmaelites  of  earth 
Who  at  the  crossroads  beat  the  drum  ; 
None  guess  our  lineage  nor  our  birth, 
The  flag  we  serve  nor  whence  we  come. 

We  claim  a  Sire  that  no  man  knows, 
The  Emperor  of  Nights  and  Days, 
Who  saith  to  Caesar,  "  Go,"  —  he  goes, 
To  Alexander,  "  Stay,"  —  he  stays. 

Out  of  a  greater  town  than  Tyre, 
We  march  to  conquer  and  control 
The  golden  hill-lands  of  Desire, 
The  Nicaraguas  of  the  soul. 

We  have  cast  in  our  lot  with  Truth  ; 
We  will  not  flinch  nor  stay  the  hand, 
Till  on  the  last  skyline  of  youth 
We  look  down  on  his  fair  new  land. 

We  put  from  port  without  a  fear, 
For  Freedom  on  this  Spanish  Main; 
And  the  great  wind  that  bore  us  here 
Will  drive  our  galleys  home  again. 

If  not,  we  can  lie  down  and  die, 
Content  to  perish  with  our  peers, 
So  one  more  rood  we  gained  thereby 
For  Love's  Dominion  through  the  years. 

79 


THIS  BOOK  WAS  PRINTED  BY  JOHN  WILSON 
AND  SON,  AT  THE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS,  CAM- 
BRIDGE, DURING  THE  AUTUMN  OF  1900 


900Z4-1388 


SEP  0  3  J998 


NOTHING  I  BROl 
BUT  THE  GARB  ( 
SUITED  FOR  PLI 
BEFITTING  A  R 


HING  I  BROl 
THE  TRAVE1 
THAT,  WHI 

.EDS  MUST  r 


r-LORD 


3  1970  00076  58 


A     000  686  053     0 


T)THE  HOUSE 
DY  AND  TAN, 
i  OR  WEAR, 

G    MAN. 


TO   THE   INN 
CLOAK  I  WORE; 
ME  AWAY, 
THE    DOOR. 


•r   -m 


